Rain
by DeannaReadX
Summary: The deatheaters attack hogwarts & Draco defects on the spot, joining the order. But his first task comes immediately when Hermione is injured in battle and he has to save her, apparating them into exile. Surviving in isolation is the least of the difficulties they face as the war progresses and they learn to tolerate each other and accept that they're not so different after all.
1. Chapter 1

So I've been writing this over the course of about three months now, and I've really enjoyed it. Its a little bit angsty, and low on plot in regards to the war situation - very much centred around the Draco/Hermione dynamic and the way it changes and develops. I hope you lot enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it. Its going to be in four parts, and I'm in the process of writing a sequel, but I'm not sure how long that will be. Let me know what you think.

Dee xx

* * *

Crawling across the floor to Granger, he pulled her into his arms, cursing at how limp she seemed against him. In a single movement, he hoisted her up over his shoulder backwards, one arm around her legs dangling over the front of his body. He closed his eyes tight shut, concentrating hard, turning on the spot. Within a slither of a second, they had completely vanished.

They slammed hard into the ground somewhere, grass cold and wet beneath his torn black blazer. In a fit of coughing, having been winded by the landing, he rolled over slowly, tensed up a little, back arched, panting to get his breath back.

It was spitting, rain misty and cool in the wind, blowing against his face, sharp and unforgiving. He drew in as deep of a breath as he could manage, stumbling to Granger and pushing a bunch of her blood-stained hair from her face. She was covered in dirt and sweat, and despite the weather, the heat of battle was still with them, burning across his forehead, mixing with the forceful spray of the rain.

He opened her eyelids with the tips of his fingers and took her pulse, checking her vitals. She was weak and unconscious, but still alive. If anything, Hermione Granger was resilient. He swallowed the doubts pushing at his gut and fumbled for that blasted bag of hers in the pocket of her jacket, tapping it with his wand and muttering the spell to erect the tent, fixing it into the ground as best he could, quickly casting all the protection spells that he had the strength for.

He then rushed back over to her, threading an arm under her legs, and lifting her upper body, hoisting her up and moving as fast as he could into their shelter, placing her down with no real finesse onto the makeshift furniture. Immediately he pulled off her jacket, cursing at the amount of blood sticking to her white top. He hated blood, couldn't stand the stuff. But if he helped her now, if he touched her whilst she was like this, then it would mark a monumental change in him; she was a mudblood and he would be throwing away all misconceptions of that.

Surprisingly, it only took him a second to hiss out a line of choice swear words and yank up her top, grimacing at the site of the deep gash going across her flat stomach. He glanced back up to her paling face, forcing himself to stop shaking.

Grabbing his wand with a firmer grip, he siphoned off the blood so that he could get a proper look at what he was dealing with. He began to slowly drag the tip of the wood across the gash, uttering incantations in perfect Latin, eyes closed, letting all the magic he could muster run through him. It was exhausting, but the adrenaline drew him on and after a couple of minutes he opened his eyelids and huffed in relief, falling on his buttocks, back leaning against the rotting old coffee table. His hands were soaked in Hermione Granger's blood but he just couldn't bring himself to care. He was in for a long night and for the moment, he could not allow himself to sleep.

* * *

She woke up choking, stirring as the breath caught in her throat and her face screwed up in agony, her body hunching in on itself. He moved to her automatically, one hand on her bicep, the other cradling the one side of her face, checking her vitals once more.

"Breathe Granger," he snapped, brushing the hair from her forehead again and helping her into a sitting position.

"Y-you," she struggled through the convulsions in her chest, drawing in retches of air as deep as she could "you – you d-defected," she attempted to talk some more, her eyes full of confusion and fear as he cast a spell to clear her lungs for her, immediately making it easier for her to respire.

"Well done," he drawled maliciously, handing her a cup of water and gesturing fiercely for her to drink the entire thing.

"W-where are we?" she gasped between gulps.

"Near Princetown," he replied blandly, sitting on the sofa next to her hip where she was still laid out slightly, pressing the back of his hand against her frown once again, just making sure that her temperature wasn't drastically escalating. It was a little on the too-warm side, but not dangerously so. Regardless, he took the cup from her when she'd finished, placing it on the table and passing her a cold compress. She laid it between her brows and tried to relax her body.

"Harry told you to take us into exile?"

"I decided on it, Granger. Potter was otherwise engaged and he is much more important to this war than I am, so the unfortunate job of saving your ass fell to me," he explained distastefully, taking the hem of her t-shirt and lifting it again. She tried to stop him for a moment before he glared at her, silently communicating that it was for her own good and that there was hardly any need for her to be insecure of her damn stomach right now, and she lowered her gaze, allowing him to take a look at her injuries.

The gash had healed over on the surface but when he lightly pressed two of his spindly, long pale fingers to where the laceration had been, she winced and bit down hard on her bottom lip. Obviously it was still healing inside, so he cast an incantation that his mother had taught him, to speed up the process. She hissed as the magic took effect, ignoring his impatient huff of irritation.

Up near her ribs, most of the bruising had gone down, but there were several spots of smaller, angry red surface cuts where she'd landed on the floor, forced to it by an explosion. Contrary to what he'd said, Granger had held herself well in battle, taking out most of the opponents she'd met almost immediately, it was just when Weasley had let an unchecked deatheater release a shit load of feindfire that had caused Potter to push her out of the way. She'd hit her head on a rock and landed stomach first on a pile of rubble.

"You should be fine by the end of the week," he assessed, not looking at her face as concentration possessed his features and he muttered healing spells at the smaller injuries that he'd missed when he had first brought her here.

"Right," she said, sitting up a little further as he dropped her t-shirt again and poured himself his own glass of water from the jug he'd made up "tell me why I shouldn't detain you right now and take you to headquarters"

"One," he sighed with a bored expression "you can barely walk; your body is too weak and you'll pass out, so I doubt you could even make a decent attempt at 'detaining' me"

She narrowed her sore eyes and determinedly stared straight at him.

"Two," he continued "headquarters is gone. The deatheaters probably destroyed it before they got to the battle ground, I doubt there's anywhere that's completely safe anymore Granger," he pointed out "this is real now, we're at war. We're also in hiding, along with the rest of your precious Order of the Phoenix"

* * *

Three weeks. It had been three weeks now, and throughout the entire stretch of time, it had not stopped raining. They had received no news apart from a small, crumpled piece of parchment from Harry reading nothing but the words 'stay hidden'. Since then, they'd been moving every couple of days, scoping out the most secluded parts of the British countryside.

There was an unrest in Hermione's soul that made her both sad and nervous. Every part of her body felt loose and disconnected. The silence that occupied their tent was deafening, the only real sound that filled her days being the continuous downpour from the cinereous sky, landing on the thin shelter above their heads. The isolation was both comforting, and maddening and she didn't think she had ever read so much in her entire life.

The most she communicated with Malfoy, was when they took it in turns to make meals. Every other day, it was her go to venture outside within the bounds of their protection spells, wrapped in the giant rain jacket she'd brought with her, and either dig out fish from the river to cook, or stun small animals to skin and roast. That, she thought, was when she was most at peace. The feel of the water on the skin of her face and the sharp, earthy smell of cold. She felt a certain tranquillity from the way her breath could be seen in uneven chaotic swirls in the air and the crunch of twigs beneath her hiking boots, the soft feel of the land below the soles of her feet. Malfoy, surprisingly, had no problem with splitting the work.

Every other morning, he woke at six am like clockwork. He always padded around the living area of the tent in his underwear for thirty minutes, eating whatever they had rationed for breakfast, before washing himself. Then he dressed in a pair of jeans (which had nearly given her a heart attack the first time, because Malfoys didn't dare wear muggle clothing), a woollen turtleneck, and a black hard-shell jacket with a worn down marmot label. She supposed that he must have caught onto her idea and stolen some clothes when they'd made a midnight trip to a muggle village supermarket, although they had nearly been spotted by some deatheaters patrolling the area, so since then they'd been pretty much forced to live off of nature. She never really watched where he went, but he always came back with something. In fact, four days into their first week of solitude, Malfoy had ducked back under the cover with a small deer over his shoulder, and a makeshift bow and arrow over the other.

She hadn't taken Malfoy for the archery type, although, when she really thought about it, the elite and wealthy in the wizarding world weren't much different to that of the muggle world, and hunting had always been a tradition amongst their ranks – so, when she considered it properly, it wasn't really that much of a surprise that he would know how to hunt without relying on magic.

Today, however, it was her turn. And, the same as usual, her body clock dragged her from her nightmares around 7 am. The sun was once again shielded by ominous clouds, the thunder crackling and rumbling through them almost effervescent. She took satisfaction from waking up to it every morning – it was strangely monotonous, yet ever changing and arrhythmic. Calming, yet quietly thrilling. She pulled a soft top over her head, followed by her favourite maroon jumper, and her most fitted, thick pair of denim jeans for maximum movement and warmth.

From there, she went to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea to warm her stomach and bring her brilliant brain to life so that she could be more alert. Just before she was about to leave, Malfoy came padding in from his own sleeping section of the tent, shirtless as ever, and ashen faced. Mornings weren't really his thing, but he always rose early, regardless of the way they didn't agree with him. Perhaps the both of them had such repetitive body clocks because of years of being up every sunrise for school.

"If I'm any more than an hour," she said neutrally, not meeting his eyes as he sat hunched on the small sofa in the middle of the room "pack this up and come looking for me"

He simply nodded at her stonily before she shrugged into her jacket, lifted the hood, and drew her wand, stepping out, once more, onto the stormy moor of Devon.

* * *

Sniffing, she shrugged the hood of her jacket further over her head where it had slipped slightly. Surprisingly, it wasn't windy, but the bitter cold made up for the lack thereof, and the air was laced with a sort of sharp smell, yet it was more the underlying cause of such continuous weather that had her being extra careful.

She had read a lot about dementors in her third year, following their appointment on the grounds of Hogwarts, and she smirked to herself as she stepped largely through the piles of mud and shrubbery, surrounded by tall trees.

She had put up quite a fuss upon hearing about that ruling, sending multiple angry letters to at least twenty ministry officials, who had all been baffled as to how she had acquired their contact details and had begged McGonagall to get her to stop. Honestly though, Hermione had always been extremely aware of Dumbledore's terribly irresponsible behaviour as a headmaster; what person, in charge of over a thousand young people, allowed soul sucking demonic creatures to be placed on school grounds? It was a rather insane concept, and one she had never been able to put logical reasoning behind.

And she was chillingly in the know about the way the dementors, free of their government limitations now, were making it rain all the time. She wondered if it could be felt by everybody, or whether it was just a magical folk thing, but it was as though with every breath she took of the outside world was contaminated somehow, with a niggling, bitter hint of lingering despair. One she had only ever felt when encountering such creatures.

A lot of the time she spent outside in the mornings, was dedicated to simply walking. It felt so much better to have the blood pumping through her body, her heart beating a little more laboriously in her chest, her breath in the air as she moved athletically, hyper aware of where the lines of their wards ended. But she knew this place, although their stay here would be short, she had been here once before, as a child. They were about a mile west from The Two Bridges on Dartmoor, and she was currently moving towards a space of open land in which she'd have to dillusion herself to cut across, where she could access a small river named Stepping Stones.

She wouldn't mention her little escapade to Malfoy, he'd only yell at her for putting their safety in jeopardy, and this was her own private little thing that she needed to do herself.

After about half an hour of walking, and sprinting across a long public road, she crouched down at the bank of the Stepping Stones and reached out to touch the water, at a higher level than usual, due to the rain, watching the disturbed surface as the sky thundered above her. She dropped backwards onto her buttocks, pulling her knees up to her chin and softly closing her eyes, breathing deeply, remembering.

As a six year old little girl, her mother and father had brought her up here on a warm summer's day in August, where they had scattered the ashes of her grandmother. It was one of her most vivid memories, despite its morbid and saddening nature, and more than anything, she needed to feel that memory now.

She needed to feel the warmth of the tears mixing with the drops of rain rolling down her face, resembling the slither of that hot sun on her younger skin. To try and picture that little pink summer dress she had been wearing and the way her mother had platted her hair for her, despite the curls, as always, escaping and tickling her cheeks in the soft summer breeze. She needed to feel her soul floating away from her, just for a moment, and connecting with the slight hint of perfume her brain remembered on the air. Once more, she wondered if her magical powers allowed her a deeper calibration with nature, because she could have sworn that there was a touch of her grandmother's remaining presence around her, at this place, eleven years later.

But she had been allowing herself this moment for too long now, and with one more deep breath, she opened her eyes and unfurled her arms from her legs, standing and taking one last look at the landscape, before sliding her frozen hands into her pockets, and turning, walking back. She would stun a couple of squirrels on her return trip to the tent, and that would be her job done for the morning, she did not want to go back and explain to Malfoy that she had spent her time outside sitting by a river and crying.

* * *

"Malfoy," she said hesitantly the next morning as she watched him move around, lacing up his tight leather boots over his jeans as he prepared his bow "do you think that I might come with you this morning?"

"Granger," he replied in a bland voice, paying the majority of his attention to yanking the laces tight around his calf muscles "there's a reason we take it in turns. It wouldn't make any sense if we both went out hunting on the same day"

"Yes," she spoke, nibbling her bottom lip from where she was curled up on the couch "but I – well, I suppose I'm quite fascinated with that bow and arrow. Why do you use it?" she asked awkwardly "when you could just stun the animals?"

"Why are you so interested anyway, Granger?" he sighed, finally stopping what he was doing with his shoes, and looking at her properly. The dark lines under his blue eyes were more prominent this morning, and there was still an angry graze across his cheekbone that was healing from the battle they'd been in just three weeks previous.

"I've always been interested in archery," she countered, ignoring his harsh tone as usual "I just suppose we'd get more done if we hunted together, and this way, I can watch and maybe learn something. You always manage to catch the bigger animals"

He stood, throwing his pack of arrows over his left shoulder and picking up his bow, looking down at her for a second before an irritated look of defeat fell over his shoulders and he huffed.

"Fine, hurry the fuck up, I don't want to be at it all day," he shot and she grinned widely, placing her mug down on the small, battered coffee table, jumping up to full height and pulling her own garments on, snatching up her wand from the arm of the chair and following him out of the tent, making sure all of their wards were extra tight and well-cast before trekking off into the forest behind him.

* * *

"I see what you mean," she whispered, slightly breathless as they crouched behind a tree, watching a badger moving about amongst the shrubbery about twenty feet in front of them. Draco lifted an arrow from behind him and settled it in place, his strong arm pulling back and holding still, incredulously steady as the rain persisted to hammer down around them, drenching their clothes "there's an honesty to it," she breathed "like we're taking up our primal instinct to hunt and mixing it with the controlled precision of the modern day need for perfection"

He paused for a moment, head turning towards her, looking her directly in the eye with a furrowed brow and a slightly confused expression, droplets of clear water trickling down his sharp, pale cheekbones, before he turned back to the creature, all of a sudden releasing the arrow with no warning. She gasped slightly as it whooshed through the air in such a straight, almost beautiful line, before embedding itself, undeviating, into the badger's eye, impaling its skull, killing it instantly.

A moment of animated quiet lay between the three of them in which all that could be heard was their slightly heavy breathing, and the cascading of the heavens. Then, whilst Hermione stared wide eyed, hands over her mouth in shock, Draco simply stood athletically back to full height and trudged over the clearing. He climbed up the short, muddy bank, lifting the animal into his lap and pulling the arrow out.

When she had gathered her wits, she mirrored his movements, heart pounding in her chest as she sat down beside him on her knees, the wet ground percolating further through the fabric of her trousers, the chirping of a couple of birds in the trees above them ringing in her ears.

"It's dead," she whispered, lips, nose, and freckled cheekbones reddened furiously from the harsh hyperborean nature of the weather.

"No shit, Granger," he replied unemotionally, once again returning to his full height and placing the lifeless animal over his free shoulder. He glanced down at her, presumably considering something, before holding out a hand to her from where she remained below him at his feet. She looked at the pale, spindly, scarred fingers for a moment, her heart skipping a beat beneath her rib cage as she realised the significance of such an action, before she took it roughly, and allowed him to pull her up to his level.

* * *

She watched him some more over the course of the following days, which stretched into more weeks. Instead of staying in her sleeping quarters, she tended to move now into the main living section of the tent, curling up on the sofa with another one of her books on horcruxes whilst Malfoy gutted the animal of the day or drew in the giant sketchbook with the muggle pencil that she guessed he must also have acquired from their little supermarket escapade at the beginning of their exile. She still found it hard to adjust to how incredibly at ease he seemed to be with muggle objects. If he wasn't snappy and resolutely quiet, maintaining a moody and irritated disposition in regards to her presence, she may even have begun to question whether she was living with Malfoy at all, and whether he was, in fact, some sort of imposter.

She was also surprised with herself.

Despite the fact that in their three month travels, they'd had distressing rows over twenty times (yes, she was keeping count), she trusted him. She trusted him so much sometimes, that it terrified her because she still forgot, occasionally, that etched into his wrist in writhing, effervescent black ink, was a skull and snake, a forever reminder that the distinguished blonde aristocrat that had somehow wormed his way into her life without meaning to, was a deatheater. Or a defected one at the least.

"Alright Granger," he huffed in annoyance about 125 days into their predicament, closing his scrapbook shut loudly and sitting forward on the moth-eaten sofa opposite her on the other side of the coffee table "I give up. What the fuck is a horcrux and why are you so damn obsessed with reading about it?" he demanded, causing her to raise her eyebrows in surprise. Fuck. She'd been so busy losing herself in the isolation and the written words and the way the rain continued to hammer brutally on outside, that she hadn't even realised that they hadn't had a conversation about what the overall situation with Draco's previous master was. Really, she thought, he needed to know about the horcruxes and how to kill him – but, her objective, logical mind reminded her that whilst he seemed to be defected, he was still a Malfoy, and a Slytherin at that. Who was to say that all this wasn't still just some plot for him to gather information on the Order and report back to Voldemort when he was done with her?

"I – I hadn't even realised," she said, blinking as it registered with her properly "I suppose I should have told you a few days into this, but I somehow just assumed that you would know. The thing is," she hesitated, closing her own book, although she didn't move from where her legs were tucked up underneath her, the thumbholes in the sleeves of her woollen red jumper and the relaxed way in which she hadn't tied her hair up that morning creating such an overall comfortable atmosphere, that she could probably almost feel as though they were back at Hogwarts lounging on the armchairs in front of the warm, roaring fire listening to the rain on the old, resilient windowpanes of the school.

Of course, the dank smell of damp age and the stains of god knows what on the fabric of the old white structure held up by magic and long black poles stuck in the ground, took away from that. This tent was far from warm and comforting, and resembled more of a sad old hut than anything. That was another thing that had surprised her, Malfoy never complained about not living in the lap of luxury or washing in an old white basin lined with a thin layer of lime scale. He simply accepted it, and went with it, doing what was required of him.

"The thing is, I don't want to regret telling you, it's kind of classified information," she continued.

"Granger, I apparated your severely injured body from a battle ground, nursed you back to health, and lived with you for the past three months, trying to survive in the most disgusting and undignified conditions," he spoke in that voice he always used when he was trying to control his temper "I can kill you in your sleep whenever I want to, but for some unknown reason, I don't. If there's something that you aren't telling me, that I probably need to know, just fucking say it," he demanded, although he met her eyes with a level of neutral respect that solidified her decision for her.

"If you betray me Malfoy, I'll slit your throat myself," she sighed, wrapping her arms around herself and snuggling further into the sofa, gesturing for him to get comfortable "you won't like it," she said darkly, before she began telling him the story that she didn't even really full understand herself.

* * *

Three days later, they got their first assignment. It was a piece of parchment magically protected from the rain with a shielding spell, written in a code developed by the Order of the Phoenix back in the first wizarding war in case of interception. It was a code the deatheaters had never been able to crack, and Hermione couldn't help the smug smirk on her face as she read the code to a frustrated Draco as he leaned closely over her shoulder, trying to make sense of the old symbols and drawings.

"Harry wants us to raid a deatheater hideout holding muggles hostage. There should be no more than five of them," she grinned, physically feeling the irritation and distaste radiating from her tent mate. He scowled, although he didn't move away, still staring at the foreign writing on the parchment, trying with all his might to try and figure out whether she was lying to him or not.

"There's no point Draco, this code is only coherent to the people who know how to read it. The deatheaters have never been able to decode it, therefore, you, as a result, will not be able to read it," she teased, amusement sparkling in her eyes as she read the message in her head a few more times, making sure that she had the details right.

"Fuck off Granger, I'm practically a member of your little secret club now, you may as well teach me this stupid code," he snapped, finally moving away from her. For a moment, she was disappointed by the lack of body heat and the absence of his form behind her's, his breath no longer tickling the left of her face. But she forced herself to push it to the back of her mind and rolled her eyes, folding up the parchment and taking it to the wash basin that they usually washed their dishes in, levitating the parchment and setting it on fire, watching it turn slightly as the flames turned it to black and white ash. She placed the basin back on the makeshift kitchen counter, turning to him as she leant against it.

"Fine," she said "I'll teach you how to read and write the code, if you do this assignment with me"

"Well I hardly have any other choice, do I?" he scoffed grumpily, moving to stand about a meter in front of her, his arms crossed over his chest "you're going to do it whether I want to go with you or not, and if I don't, you're going to get yourself killed, which is really not in my best interests at this point in time. When does Potter want us to go in?" he asked, leaning against one of the solid black poles that kept the tent upright and fixing her with a mildly annoyed, yet slightly curious expression, one he surveyed her with quite often of late, especially since she'd filled him in about the horcruxes and everything else that the Order had been working on to aid the defeat of Voldemort.

"Wednesday morning," she replied regally and with a slightly uneasy look "he says that's when there won't be anyone outside guarding the sight. There'll just be the deatheaters inside and the captives," she informed with a deep, uncertain sigh. He frowned as she nibbled thoughtfully on her chapped, chewed up bottom lip.

"What deatheaters are going to be there?" he wondered.

"Why do you ask?" she retorted, slightly suspicious. He rolled his eyes at her, tutting.

"I'm asking because I lived with these people for a year Granger, I know their fighting styles and tactical weaknesses. Did you think The Dark Lord was just going to recruit a bunch of people who had no idea how to use their bodies or wands in combat?" he raised one eyebrow, watching her bristle at his mild insult on her intelligence.

"No," she retorted, pouting slightly "but your lot aren't the brightest bunch of organised criminals, are they?" she continued "I sort of just assumed that they all mostly got in on good blood and bad reputation"

"You're not wrong about the stupid thing, especially the older ones who spend too much time talking about all the evil things they're going to do, rather than actually doing them. Not that I wasn't one of those idiots of course"

"You've killed people though," she spoke, her voice slightly more careful now as she looked at him with an unreadable expression "I've seen it"

"I've killed deatheaters, Granger," he answered, for once, with no anger behind his words – he was ashamed of a lot of the things he'd done, but at least he could say that he had never taken the life of an innocent; he'd been too much of a coward for that. Somehow, he found it much easier to snap the necks of his fellow deatheaters, than those of defenceless, battered muggles. Perhaps that said more about his personality than he was willing to admit, but that was the way it was, and there was no going back now "I've never killed a muggleborn or a muggle. They tried to get me to, but I never could"

"That's not a bad thing Malfoy," she said, her voice suddenly softer now, her ridiculous brown eyes gentler as she pushed off of the counter and took a few casual steps towards him "you didn't want to kill innocent people, that doesn't make you a coward. It makes you a half-decent person"

Typical Granger, simplifying everything. It was a whole lot more complicated than that. She was too quick to see the good in people, and it was profoundly irritating. Just because he had never killed a muggle or someone of lesser blood than him, did not mean that he hadn't even contributed towards the mindless torture of them. Just because he'd never pointed a wand at a muggle's forehead and spoken the cruciatus curse, didn't mean that he hadn't stood back and watched without doing anything about it. An inactive bystander could be just as much to blame as the person perpetrating the act of violence. And in the beginning, he had beaten them.

After taking the mark, he'd been out of his mind. The agony that followed such a violating and raw experience had left him full of fury and hate, and he had beaten several muggles and muggleborns until they were slurring as they begged for him to stop. He had washed their dirty blood off of his pale hands and used dittany on his knuckles. He caught Granger looking at his hands now and again, obviously coming up with theories for all the scars, the cogs turning in her frustratingly brilliant brain. There was no way any of it was ever that simple.

"Where is it that we're supposed to be raiding?" he asked, ignoring her attempt at reassurance, alarm bells ringing in his head. He had a habit of getting attached to people who saw the good in him, it was a rare talent, and there was no way he could let himself get attached to Granger. It would destroy him. Or much worse, destroy her. She blinked a couple of times, obviously annoyed and disappointed with him, before swallowing and drawing in a deep, stressed breath.

"It's a broken down shack near Bodmin moor, two miles west of the prison. We need to be prepared. I think we should train in combat tomorrow; we're supposed to be taking out Yaxley, Dolohov, and Travers," she informed, pointedly not looking him in the eye now, a wall slammed up between them. He nodded, moving back into the living room and opening his sketchbook out on the coffee table, taking out his pencil and sitting forward. Granger frowned and sat opposite him, also sat forward.

"Okay," he spoke, in planning mode "Yaxley and Dolohov hate each other. They've been at loggerheads for The Dark Lord's attention since before we even made a move on the ministry, they'll be distracted trying to one up each other. Travers is quick on his feet but he's dumb and young, he was barely passed through training but his father is high up in the inner circle, so he was given the mark anyway," he explained clearly and carefully, noting it down in bullet points in his neat, looped handwriting. She nodded along, understanding that apart from the codes, he knew more than her when it came to this kind of thing. He had inside knowledge.

"Yaxley has a busted left knee, he injured it in the first war when he was seventeen, so he's learned to move mostly on his right leg. If we take that out, he'll get clumsy. But he fights dirty, I've seen him bite and claw in combat before, and he has very few limits. Dolohov is slow, but he's bulky and if he gets a hit in, it'll fuck you up quite badly and make it harder to hurt him much after that. With Travers, the trick is diversion. It's easy to make him think you're going to attack him from the left so he'll angle himself accordingly – like I said though, he's dumb, but fast, so you have to be quicker than him. Best bet, get him on his left, hex him straight away on the right. Once he's confused, it's pretty easy to take him out. Granger, are you listening to me?" he said in a slightly sharper voice, looking her directly in the eyes again.

"Yes," she said, nodding.

"This isn't a joke, we're talking about trained killers here"

"You're a trained killer," she said "and if you think I haven't killed anyone before, then you're naive. Don't think I'm some sort of fragile flower Malfoy-"

"Granger," he stopped her, staring at her blandly "I think you're a lot of things, but the one thing I'll never compare you to, is a fragile fucking flower. Relax, I know you're capable," he spoke "I'm capable too, but if I don't pay attention to things like the way my opposition fights, I'll also get my ass kicked, and this will all be for nothing. Now," he said, going back to his notes "because Travers is the quickest and fittest, they'll put him out front. You can take him if you want, he bores me and you're faster than me," he admitted, and she smiled slightly, nodding again as her face slowly started to become more animated than it had been in weeks. She had a purpose now, something to plan for. If Draco was being honest, he felt the same.

"I'll take Yaxley, I've been wanting his head on a plate since he tried to rape my mother last year-"

"What?" she exclaimed, unnerved by the casual nature with which he said that sentence.

"Calm yourself, Granger, there are several people I want to kill for very similar reasons. Head in the game"

"This isn't a game, Malfoy," she growled, red faced. Oh shit. He knew that expression. She was gearing up to yell a lot and throw things. For someone who was so patient and infamous for her compassion, Granger was fucking terrifying when she was really angry. It was a good thing. She could use it, if she learned how to focus it properly.

"Yes it is Granger," he growled back, becoming more and more pissed off by the minute, and her inability to control her emotions was not helping the situation "this is The Dark Lord's game and we're nothing but players. Tomorrow, we take out his pawns, his pieces. Its salami tactics, surely you've been taught about that in your muggle schools," he replied, finding himself getting closer the more worked up he got, mirroring her body language.

"You can think of this war as a game if it makes it psychologically easier for you to bare Malfoy, but people are dying. People are being raped and beaten and murdered-"

"Don't you think I fucking know that?" he hissed, snapping, his body immediately standing up, for once unable to keep a check on it as she shot up with him, eyes narrowed, face flushed, her hair frazzling out like a goddamn cat. No, not like a cat, like a lion.

She was being naive again, and suggesting that he wasn't clued in on the reality of the war just because he had previously been on the side of the oppressors, was quite frankly one of the most vicious ways that she'd insulted him so far.

"I have seen this war," he said in a sharp, low voice. They were closer now than he'd originally realised, his breath fanning unevenly over her heated face "don't you dare assume that I don't know about this war because I'm not some poor oppressed little muggleborn-"

He was cut off mid-sentence because her hand collided with an echoic slap across his right cheekbone, the imprint of her hand leaving a trail of burning calefaction radiating from his pale skin, like fire whipping in waves of ferocity over brumal ice, momentarily chipping away a part of it, melting it slightly.

"Fuck you," she spat, reaching her limit "you have _no idea_ what it's like. It must have been so fucking difficult for you, inflicting pain on innocent people because of the blood that runs through their veins. It must have been _so terribly difficult_ _for you_, listening to the screams in the middle of the night whilst you were laid in your soft, warm bed. It must have been _so damaging_ for you to be cradled by your loving mother whilst you sobbed and begged for it all to end. It must have been _so traumatic_ for you," she sneered, practically fuming, the lanterns lit around the tent flickering and roaring with the force of her rage sparked magic "we are all soldiers, Malfoy," she seethed, her voice low and rough, eyes full and glassy with unshed, splenetic tears "this is not a game. This is our life. Don't dress this up like chess to detach yourself from it. That is what genocidal, blind followers do when they commit acts of despicability. Check your privilege Draco Malfoy. You are better than that. Or at least," she spoke bitterly, taking a step backward "I thought you were"

* * *

There were so many things about Draco Malfoy that intrigued Hermione. For one, she could not for the life of her understand why she was so comfortable with him, when he'd attempted to kill their headmaster only months previous, and had treated her as nothing but dirt for seven years, along with the fact that he had stood by and watched whilst she'd been tortured on his drawing room floor. But too many other things confused her as well. She seemed to be obsessed with watching him. Obviously she never did it so that he would notice, but there was something so captivating about him. Like an ugly, abstract piece of art that became more and more aesthetically bearable the more she learned about it.

She was the worst for it in the mornings when he wondered around in his underwear.

There wasn't a sexual aspect to her observations, it was just that he had such a strangely built body. Well, in comparison to the bodies she'd seen in her short time of actually looking at the partially naked human form anyway. Ron was built, bones strong, sinew thick around muscle and fair skin. She'd enjoyed being with Ron because she liked to connect the dots on his skin and map out pictures with the tips of her fingers.

Malfoy was so very different. He was thin. All of his bones were at least a little bit visible under his ghostly pale skin, and there were no natural marks; no freckles or beauty spots or birth marks. His shoulder blades stuck out, but at the same time, were cushioned by wiry, smooth looking muscle, the kind that came from playing Quidditch for years. His hips were prominent and the V that shaped them looked thin over the bones. His arms were strong and just as pale as the rest of them, but then again, his arms had never been particularly skinny, along with his legs. He had a smattering of blonde hair at the bottom of his stomach, but other than that he was mostly bare, his collar bones two long, upside down arches branching all the way across his clavicle. His ribs lined his diaphragm clearly when he moved, but his stomach was, though thin, filled in with a web of toned tendon, covered by a cadaverous carapace that all seemed to move fluidly and with a grace that was almost ironic.

And he was covered in scars. Along his spine, there were lines of pale, bumpy, disturbed flesh that looked as though they'd been inflicted with a knife. In some places they were barely visible, older, thinner. Lines that resembled nail marks drew their pasty imprints from the sides of his back, around to a few centimetres of his front as though someone had wrapped their arms around his waist and dragged their fingers across his skin on their way back out. Of course, there were the sectumsemptra scars on his chest, a lot less alarming than what they had been when first inflicted, but visible all the same. Hermione supposed he'd have them for the rest of his life, however long or short that may be.

And then there was his face. As thin as the rest of his body, though definitely broader and less pointy than it had been before he'd finished puberty – his jawline was squarish, his nose angular, his cheekbones defined and sharp. His lips were unblemished and almost impossibly soft looking, only one or two shades up from the rest of his pallid complexion. His eyes were a terribly striking colour of clear crystal blue, though not soft and calming like water – more cold and calculating, like ice. Everything about him appeared as though it should be algid, yet he was always, almost without fail, warm to the touch. He was also constantly flicking the hair from his face. It was getting slightly longer now, yet remaining the smooth and silky blonde it had always been.

"Malfoy," she asked the following day as he padded around the kitchen drinking his morning coffee, a think they'd stocked up on with abundance when they had first taken from the supermarket at the beginning of their venture "why haven't you killed me yet?"

He snorted as he turned to look at her where she was sat on the couch in the small, smelly lounge. He leant against the weak countertop and wrapped his free arm around his middle, the other occupying a mug of hot liquid that was slowly bringing him more and more into the harsh reality of the day.

"Beats me," he remarked in a low, slightly croaky voice, made quiet with the night's troubled sleep, rolling his half lidded eyes when she fixed him with a reproachful look "I'm defected Granger. I publicly disobeyed and betrayed my master and I did it to save your life. For one, it would just make this whole ordeal for nothing," he managed, although his tongue dragged on a couple of syllables because he was still half asleep "and two, I have nowhere to go if the Order kick me out of their ranks as well, and I don't think they'd want me very much if I stuck a dagger through your heart"

"Nice to know I'm held in such high esteem," Hermione replied distastefully, eyebrows raised a little as she drank her tea.

"Would you like me to spurt an elaborate declaration of love for you, Granger?" he teased, his small, sleepy smirk slightly wonky and half-assed.

"I'm quite alright without one thank you," she replied with a tiny, breathy chuckle, shaking her head at him and going back to reading over his notes about the deatheaters fighting techniques. They were going to do some training today, once they'd caught tonight's dinner and mapped out a way of actually getting anywhere near the place without being shot dead.

"I thought so," he mumbled pitifully, rolling his tongue around his mouth to get rid of the morning taste and blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Honestly, he was supposed to be some sort of terrifying ex-deatheater. Right now, he just looked like a tired Labrador.

"Where are your scars from?" she asked, and he immediately looked impatient, fixing her with a warning look.

"Granger, we came to an understanding yesterday after our little tiff in which you seem to think you firmly put me in my proverbial place, which is also now apparently equal to yours. I have agreed to make a conscious effort to be less narrow minded and a lot more co-operative. That doesn't mean I'm going to bare my fucking soul to you," he snapped, more awake than he was letting on, judging by the eloquence of his speech "_where do your scars come from_," he muttered under his breath grumpily "fucking stupid question," he continued to mutter as he sipped his drink with one hand, ordering the dishes in the wash basin with the other.

She took that as a hint to go back to her reading, although it didn't dissipate her curiosity. She just felt that perhaps, if she knew Malfoy better, then she wouldn't feel constant strong urges to hex him or scream at him in fits of rage, thus making their forced time together much more bearable. Alas, he continued to shut her out, she continued to read, and outside, tempestuous as ever, it rained.

* * *

She ducked under the draped shrubbery and tapped Malfoy's knee from where he was crouched on the same level beside her, nodding as they pushed up slightly and made quick, silent work of the ground, creeping soundlessly around the back of the large, derelict cabin. Harry's letter had been correct in its claim that there would be no external guards on this particular facility today, and she was grateful for it, unsure as to whether they would survive a fight against more than a few extremely accomplished death eaters.

She whispered an unlocking spell and dismantled the wards under her breath, waiting to hear the click of the mechanism in the old wooden door before she pressed against it slightly and it fell open a few centimetres. Keeping her wand clutched tightly in her hand by her hip, Malfoy followed her into the room.

It stunk of damp and rust and uninhabited nature. There were vines poking through holes in the walls, breaking up through the floorboards, wrapping themselves around the old structure, slowly strangling it.

Once they were sure there was no one around or watching them, they moved to the centre of the room. Malfoy bent and opened the hatch they'd been looking out for, pulling it up from the ground.

The both of them cringed and momentarily covered their noses when the stink of sewage leaked from the deep hole that the latch had revealed, but quickly recovered. Hermione climbed over first, taking a hold of the ladder and beginning to move downwards, trying to ignore the fact that the metal she was holding onto with every step, was covered in lime scale and coated her fingers with a gooey substance. She sniffed at it for a second on their way down, making sure it wasn't poisonous or harmful. She didn't recognise the odour or texture, so it wasn't within her repertoire – and her repertoire was pretty goddamn extensive.

On the final pole, Hermione athletically lowered her legs down first, hanging for a second to get a decent landing in range, and then jumped, bending her knees in the process to lessen the impact. Malfoy dropped in quietly behind her, and she grimaced once more at the overwhelming smell of urine.

They moved as discreetly as they could, despite the way the thin layer of water beneath their feet splashed slightly with every step, echoing softly and dimly around the circular tunnel. All the while, her eyes scanned the perimeter, ears pricking at the slightest sound; anticipating attack.

Soon, along one of the tunnels, they could see flickering light up ahead reflected on the wet surfaces of the walls, and immediately they backed up against one of them, Draco poking his head around the corner for a moment to get a look of the situation. He moved back, nodding at her, confirming that his suspicions about the positions of their opponents had been correct. She nodded in reply and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply for a moment and gathering her power, building up as much as she could.

And then Draco was moving. Hermione ducked in front of him yet again and marched with a determined expression on her face towards Travers, whose eyes widened upon seeing her, taking on a defensive pose. Within seconds, as she drew closer, she shot a killing curse at him, which he blocked. Just like that, she was moving like lightening, ducking, blocking curses and jinxes, a sheen of sweat shining on her forehead in the torch light. Behind them, Draco had given up trying to match Yaxley with his wand, and was locked in a vicious fist fight with his former comrade, their little dance moving so fast that he couldn't get a kick in where he needed to.

The moment Hermione got a chance to duck again, she sent a fast jinx at Yaxley's left knee, although she barely had a slither of a second to bathe in satisfaction before she was being disarmed. In retaliation, she was forced to duck again, dodging curses as she marched right up to Travers now, really pissed off, panting as she cracked her neck and slammed her elbow into his face, taking advantage when he buckled by stamping on his hand, forcing his wand from his grip. His fist smacked her full pelt in the gut and she was distracted for a moment, which allowed him back to his feet, nose bloody, freshly angry. She continued to fight him, trying her best to remember Draco's training, although it had been extremely last minute. She recalled a singular phrase, one that had stuck with her above all other vulgarities that he'd spewed in the process of graphically teaching her how to fight with her hands. 'When in doubt, snap the bastard's neck'.

Out of breath and growing increasingly furious with the bruises and mild breaks adding up in and on her body, she growled one last time, blocking a punch again and kneeing Travers in the testicles, wrapping her arm around his neck, keeping her foot pressed down hard on his leg so that he couldn't stand, ignoring his hands desperately gripping for her to release him. And then, closing her eyes once more, feeling the weight of murder already settling dreadfully into her bones, she yanked hard, the loud crack echoing and resonating around the tunnel. Travers dropped like a puppet to the ground, and immediately she turned to see Draco standing over Yaxley, breathlessly muttering the killing curse, before a wave of heat and green light blew the hair from her face, and there was silence once more.

A few feet away, Dolohov laid limp and thoroughly lifeless in a pool of his own blood.

And slowly, the reality of it began to ring alarm bells in Hermione's head, her eyes filling with harsh, hot tears, her mouth dropping open, a lump in her throat choking her as she struggled to articulate and process what she had just done.

And then Draco's hands were holding her face, trying to get her attention as she let out a sob, her hands shaking violently, her brown eyes wide and terrified and devastated.

"Granger," he snapped, his voice sounding far away, as though he was shouting underwater "Granger, for fuck sake c'mon, snap out of it," he spoke again and this time, her eyes flickered to meet his as the tears spilled over and dripped down her dirty, sweat stained face "Granger," he breathed, pressing their foreheads together hard "we have people relying on us; innocent people. Come on"

And then she remembered. She remembered that behind one of the doors on the sides of the walls along the tunnel, there were muggles with potentially life threatening injuries and trauma. People that needed them to keep it together right now. People that needed saving.

She shut her eyelids tight for another moment, trying to concentrate on Draco's warm, pale hands smeared in blood and his head pressed against her's, trying to draw strength and reality from the solidarity of it. And then she swallowed hard, nodding once. He let go of her face and took her hand, pulling her along, pulling every door open, the metal slamming back against the stone and whispering softly along the walls.

And all of this was only the beginning.

* * *

It was three in the morning before they'd finished patching up the muggles they'd rescued. The two children were curled up on the mattress Draco had pulled from his bed and put near the sofas in the lounge, bundled up in four layers of blankets and pillows, wrapped tight in two of his jackets. The younger one, Lucy, was sucking her thumb and wincing a little in her sleep. It triggered a deep anger in his chest, although it was of the soothing sort that assured him that he was slowly becoming a better person. At least now, without his father's hands around his neck and Voldemort's voice whispering in his ear, he could recognise that the torture of all these innocent people was wrong and insanely genocidal. And he despised himself for ever being associated with such a movement.

Leant against the countertop in the makeshift kitchen of the tent, he watched Granger, exhausted and silent, as she tended to her own injuries now that she was sure the people they'd rescued were okay.

She looked different like this. Sluggishly, she took the little remaining bandages that they had left, and began wrapping her left forearm.

Her hair was obscenely wild, the curls bigger and messier than he'd ever seen them. Her brown eyes were hooded and lined with dark shadows, her bottom lip split where she'd taken a punch to the face. She was sporting an angry red gash across her right cheekbone where a gathering of freckles dusted over her cheeks and nose, and there was still a thick line of blood matted on her skin beginning to the left of her hairline and ending near her jawline.

Looking at her properly now, he noticed the scar stretching a large section of her chest, disappearing beneath the low cut vest she was wearing, fading now, but still obvious. He noticed that she had a button nose, an oval shaped face, and a softly rounded chin. He noticed that she sat with one leg out further than the other, possibly from an old altercation, but more likely a recent injury. He noticed that her arms were strong, that she had the slender body of somebody who, despite spending so much time reading books and eating, exercised regularly and could move fast. She wasn't angled or short, nor was she large and overbearing. She was soft lines and curved edges, imperfect and unapologetically gentle. To those who were passing her in the street, or who had never encountered her for more than ten minutes, she was stunningly average and discreetly invisible. She fit neatly into a studiously plain box marked 'bookworm'.

But to those who had known her for years, she was much more complicated than that. Her imperfections had begun as her weaknesses, her insecurities. Insecurities that he had cruelly and ruthlessly exploited throughout their childhood. As a frumpy, bucktoothed, frizzy haired little know-it-all, she had been defensive and uptight and shaky. Yet somehow, in her adolescence, Granger had turned her imperfections into armour and strength, accepted them, embraced them, and found ways to utilise them. It wasn't as though her less-than-typically-attractive features hindered her wicked intelligence and incorrigibly quick wit in any way, something that he continued to be both impressed and irritated with, even in their young adulthood.

And it wasn't as though she was particularly ugly in any way, shape, or form. At least not now he was no longer blinded by intense hatred and disgust for her. Looking at her now, from a neutral point of view, he could see how Weasley found her so endearing. Her honey brown eyes and the occasional smile that tended to light up the entirety of her face, and the flush that rose to the surface of her cheeks when she was furious, was almost electric. Whilst her hair could be wild and thick to alarming levels sometimes, it was her trademark. There was simply no other type of hair that would look right on her. And at the very least, he could admire, that aside from the teeth she had shortened during their third year, all the other physical appearances he had mocked her for, had lasted. She had come into herself gracefully and shamelessly, and if anything, he could respect that.

"For fuck sake Granger," he sighed, rolling his eyes as he finished strapping his own hand and wrist where he'd sprained it snapping Yaxley's neck "you're fucking that up. Here, let me do it"

Sitting on the coffee table in front of her, he took her arm from her and tightened the bandage slightly, enough to support the injury and protect it, but not so that it cut off the circulation. She simply allowed him to work, too tired, he supposed, to bother arguing with him. It wasn't as though they had much energy left to fight each other anyway.

When he'd finished with her arm, he summoned a bowl and filled it with water from his wand, muttering a heating spell and dipping cotton wool in it, beginning to dab at the blood near her hair. He probably could have siphoned it off, but right now he needed to be doing something with his hands. Right now he needed something to concentrate on so that he didn't lose his mind.

Trying to ignore the fact that this was the closest he'd ever been to Granger's face aside from in the tunnel, he cleaned her skin as gently as he could, trying not to wince at the deep cut where the blood was originating from. As he did so, he could feel Granger's eyes watching him softly, her brow slightly furrowed, breath even and slow, the small amount of space between them warm and pensive and quiet.

After whispering the few healing spells he could manage to seal the skin back together, he moved onto her cheekbone. This laceration was longer and deeper than the other one, and the skin around it was grazed and red. Vanishing the dirty water and used cotton wool, he summoned some more and cautiously started around the edges. She winced and hissed as the hot water began to clean it. He didn't apologise, but wordlessly, he held her chin still slightly with his other hand, thumb pressed to her jaw, fingers curved underneath it, making his dabs softer and more careful.

In his whole life, he had never imagined that this was where he would end up. He never could have imagined that he would be sat so close to Granger without trying to hurt her or inconvenience her in some way. He had spent the majority of his years waging such an intense, deep dislike for her heritage and blood; he would never in a million years have guessed that he'd be on the run, harbouring rescued muggles, wiping Granger's blood from her skin with no qualms or second thoughts.

Her blood was all over his fingers yet again. Years ago, the only way he would have allowed such a situation, would be down to an injury he had caused her. Instead, her blood was smudged across the tips of his fingers because… oh for fuck sake, it was because he wanted to make it alright. He wanted her to be okay. He didn't want to look at her and feel all this guilt and self-hatred. He wanted to do everything that he could to make it all up to her. He at least owed her this much.

Honestly, it was all well and good until he had focused on her split lip. It was red and still bleeding a little, and despite its lack of severity, it was this one that probably stung the most. But staring at her mouth made it almost impossible for him to sit still suddenly.

She had such an annoying mouth. He was unsure as to how a person's mouth could actually be annoying, but it just was. Her lips were full and curved and chapped, and there were always teeth marks where she'd been fiercely nibbling and biting at them in unconscious thought. Maybe it was because she expressed herself with her mouth so much, but her lips were one of the most notable parts of her, and to be quite frank, the way she constantly chewed on them, drove him crazy.

Swallowing tightly, he shifted a little and tried to refocus, one of his hands still holding her chin stationary, the other stippling the small laceration with the cotton. He really did not want to think about why the air around him had suddenly become a lot thicker and difficult to breathe. Not spending longer than he really had to on it, he finished cleaning it quickly, and almost rushed the healing spell.

"Thank you," she spoke as he vanished yet another lot of dirty water. He shrugged and shuffled his buttocks backwards slightly on the table, sitting forward still, arms resting on his knees, hands clutched together, legs open slightly. He wet his dry lips and squinted tiredly, bringing one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, huffing and stretching his arms above his head, closing his eyes and breathing out heavily when the bones and muscles moved and clicked, sore and aching.

"You were making a mess of it. No point in you being bed bound for days because of some fuck off awful infection when it could just be prevented"

"All the same," she repeated "thank you. I know… I know it's still difficult for you, touching me and – well, being around my blood"

"Don't be ridiculous Granger," he sighed, hanging his head and distractedly bringing one hand up to massage the back of his neck "even if it was difficult for me, it wouldn't make a difference. I've been a bigoted asshole towards you for most of our lives; what makes me uncomfortable when it comes to your blood, is irrelevant. As you so aptly informed me last week; my discomfort is nothing compared to the way that you have suffered"

There were another few moments of quiet in which the only sounds were their breath, and the soft, stifled snoring of little Lucy and her sister, Margo. The older muggles, Megan and Amy, were asleep in Granger's bed, curled up together, traumatised and clutching each other through their nightmares.

"Things are so different now," Granger's voice came minutes later, drained, wearied, and broken "I mean," she spoke, the crack in her voice causing his chest to contract slightly "I knew things were going to change. I – I just don't think I was prepared for it to be this drastic"

"None of us were Granger," he replied, shrugging again and lifting his head to meet her eyes this time "in a way, we shouldn't have had to be. There isn't really a way you can properly prepare yourself for war and mass death when you're seventeen years old"

Granger raised her eyebrows in agreement and sat back against the sofa, body slack and loose, eyelids getting heavier by the minute. A lethargy was settling in his blood, his skin feeling tight, eyes dry and itchy.

"Lay down if you're going to sleep Granger," he said blandly "you don't want to get a crick in your neck"

It was clear just how tired she was by the way she didn't make a snarky comment about him being concerned for her comfort. She very much enjoyed pointing out that he wasn't as horrid and cruel as he allowed everybody to think, so the fact that she silently turned her body horizontal and curled up, shaking a little from the chill of the winter rain and hugging her limbs inward, was a clue as to just how out of it she really was. She closed her eyes immediately, and without a word, he went to his room and gathered a couple of blankets, moving back into the living room and tutting at her.

She was already fast asleep, brow furrowed even in her dreams, lips slightly parted, breath steady and quiet. He placed the blankets over her body and crouched near Lucy and Margo, checking their breathing. In a moment of sadness and exhaustion, he reached out, gently pushing the hair from Lucy's young face, her tiny six year old body tightly tucked into her sister's. And the anger returned, stronger than before. These girls were just children, barely even aware of what was going on around them. And the deatheaters had beaten them bloody, tortured them, starved them. Two, scared, innocent little girls.

And for the first time, he was truly glad that he was no longer affiliated with the evil, disgusting bastards. Honestly, he hated his father more than anything, for forcing that life on him, for making it all he had known for seventeen years. For the first time, he didn't want to be neutral anymore. For the first time, he felt himself making a solid decision. He was now a member of The Order of the Phoenix, and he would be damned if he didn't fight to make sure every single malevolent fucker that he used to call his comrade felt the extent of the pain they were inflicting.


	2. Chapter 2

I forgot to mention, I listened to the rainymood website pretty much all the way through writing this story, and I also have a playlist for it which I listened to underneath the rainymood sounds. I'll put it on my profile page. Enjoy, and let me know what you think.

Dee xx

* * *

"She's stopped being sick," Megan sighed, moving her own long hair to the one side of her neck, taking the cold flannel he handed her and dabbing at her skin.

"Maybe now she'll sleep," Granger spoke optimistically as she braided Margo's blue hair for her "this is such a pretty colour," she added when she tied it up with a hairband.

"It's fading," Margo replied, smiling widely with gratitude as she moved from between Hermione's legs to sit opposite her on the other sofa "my mum let me dye it a couple of months ago but one of the deatheaters cut at it when I first got there so that I couldn't use it to strangle myself"

Draco knew all too well about the processing system of new prisoners at the manor. Their hair would be cut brutally by one of the more leering deatheaters, their nails would be snipped at until they bled so that they couldn't scratch, and all piercings would be viciously removed with no sterilisation. Most of the muggles kept down there usually died of infection or blood loss before they had even been tortured for the first time.

"I just got her down," Amy informed them from the doorway of the room that Lucy was sleeping in, or, more frequently, throwing up in. Megan immediately moved to her girlfriend, smiling softly and leaning against the side of her body, resting the side of her face against her shoulder.

"Finally," Granger nodded with a small breath of relief "I was starting to worry she'd never stop. There you go," she grinned at Margo, reaching over the table to boop her nose "your sister is going to be fine. She's just in shock is all"

"I'm going to go on a hunt Granger," he said stonily, trying to ignore the guilt he felt just looking at these people. And that, he supposed, was his privilege. He only had to feel a little guilty. The muggles themselves had to wake up screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night because of torture flashbacks; they had to deal with frequent panic attacks and damaged muscles and bones that would never properly heal. He had the luxury to leave for a while, shut it out with occlumency, distract himself. They did not.

"Can I come with you?" Megan piped up, eyes suddenly glinting with purpose "I know how to track and shoot if you've got a bow"

"It's not safe-"

"It's okay Malfoy," Granger nodded, interrupting him, glancing back and forth between them "Megan is still getting hot flushes from the curse damage, it'll do her good to get some fresh air"

"I don't know," Amy said, standing up straighter as Megan moved away to take the jacket Granger was offering her "he's right, it's not safe out there, and you're still ill"

"Oh hush," Megan rolled her eyes, tutting "I'll be fine. Look," she said, reaching for where Draco's bow was laid out on the table. She was right about knowing how to handle the weapon at least. In fact, he'd say by her posture and the way she mock aimed an arrow at the thin sheet of tent that acted as a wall, she was a better arm than him.

"Fine," he replied bitterly, not meeting Megan's eyes "but we're quick and quiet-"

"Right, sure," Megan nodded, a bored look on her slightly chubby face "if we're attacked I shouldn't expect you to take a bullet for me, all that bullshit," she teased. He continued to avoid eye contact with her, hooking his arrow pack around his torso, settling it against his spine and handing Megan a pack of her own. She shrugged it on like it was a second nature, and kissed Amy whilst she waited for him to get his second bow from his room.

* * *

"You're one of them, right?" Megan asked him in a hushed voice as they crouched behind a lot of shrubbery where the dears usually came by, waiting for a catch "a deatheater"

"Used to be," he replied emotionlessly, eyes straight ahead of him. Megan was a skilled huntress, and clearly intelligent. It was just that she was so fucking irritating. She hadn't shut the fuck up from the moment they had left the tent "I'm defected"

"Oooh," she grinned wickedly "love me a bad boy gone good type"

"You're a lesbian," he countered, raising one eyebrow, although his eyes remained ever on the potential spot where a larger animal might come through, providing them with a dinner.

"Well yeah," she chuckled quietly "but I can look at the menu. Doesn't mean I'm gonna order from it"

"That's cute," he remarked blandly "can we focus now?"

"Sure," she smirked, turning her head back to where they were supposed to be watching. There were a few minutes of silence, in which the rain, ever present and relentlessly annoying, continued its assault on the earth.

"So," she said, clearly unable to keep her mouth shut for very long "how about you? You a swinger?"

"I don't know what the fuck that means," he sighed, jaw tight as he adjusted his feet, welcoming the burn of his calf muscles where he was positioned. It gave him something to concentrate on, and prevented him from losing his temper.

"Oh right," she acknowledged "sorry, muggle slang. I mean do you like dudes?"

"Occasionally," he responded "depends on my mood. Selection isn't what it used to be, you know, the whole war thing," he spoke. He knew he was being condescending and sarcastic, but he really was not in the mood to debate human sexuality.

"Ah," she nodded again "you're bi. Cool," she said "but you guys are against being born a muggle because of the whole blood supremacy, dark ages bullshit. Why you don't discriminate based on sexuality?"

"Its relative," he honestly had no idea how he was refraining from casting a silencing spell on her, but he was also well aware that she was fresh out of an underground cell in which strangers had done a lot of other, more barbaric things to her against her will, so of course, the whole consent thing was specifically important to her right now "as long as we can get our dicks up to reproduce an heir, our parents turn a blind eye to our other, less accepted sexual activities. Do you always talk this much?"

"Sorry," she smiled sheepishly "it's a habit I was trying to get out of before they captured us, but when we were in the cells for so long, the talking thing kept us all sane"

"Whatever," he grumbled "just… try to concentrate"

* * *

They returned to the tent unharmed two hours later with two small does slung over their shoulders. They could have done with just the one, but Draco had insisted on a second, claiming that the muggles hadn't eaten properly in months, and needed some protein.

"Oh thank Merlin," they were greeted by Granger's voice as she stood from the sofa at their entrance "I was about to come looking for you"

"Don't be a drama queen," he retorted tiredly, wincing as weight of the dead animal became a little too much for his still severely bruised ribs to take. He flopped it down near the makeshift fire and Megan went straight to Amy, hugging her tightly. He exchanged a deeper look with Granger for a moment as he passed, going to Lucy's room.

Her tiny body was curled in tight and she was shivering heavily. Going to the box near the doorway, he pulled out two more woollen blankets, draping them over the young girl. He crouched down beside her near her head, curving his mouth a little despite the lurch in his stomach at her glistening green eyes, red rimmed and sore. Tear tracks ran down her chubby little cheeks and her breathing was laboured.

"Hey," he said softly in a hushed voice "you should have told someone that you were awake"

"Didn't want to bother them," she spoke, teeth chattering, stumbling on her words.

"Look at you though," he tutted, brushing the hair from her shining forehead "you're all sticky and gross. You want some water?"

She nodded as eagerly as she could and tried feebly to sit up a little as he reached for the glass of water on the box beside the bed. He helped her drink, dabbing at her chin where she coughed a little and spluttered.

"How about I get Hermione to fill the tank with some warm water and you can get clean, yeah?"

She nodded again and he smiled properly now, taking her by the underarms and lifting her onto his hip, her arms sliding around him, body still quivering, head automatically burying in the crook of his neck, face wet and heated against his skin. He needed to break her fever again. She'd run one through the night as well, but they'd managed to get it down by wetting cloths and trying to get fluids into her. Something told him it would not be so simple this time.

"Granger, fill the tub," he spoke, gesturing discreetly for her to get the smaller metal tank they usually filled with water to bath in. She nodded, springing to attention immediately at the sight of the whimpering child attached to his torso.

"Hey if we get you clean on time maybe you can help Amy cook dinner, hmm?" he said gently and he felt Lucy nodding against him again. Amy and Megan took the hint, taking the heavy animals into the kitchen to start preparing them. Granger followed him to the back room of the tent that they used as their bathroom, muttering some spells to fill it with water.

"Look," he set Lucy down on the nearest surface, pointing to Hermione's wand "like magic," he smiled. Lucy's mouth twitched and her eyes widened slightly. He gestured for her to lift her small arms above her head so that he could pull her baggy t-shirt off. When Granger was done, he checked the water before helping Lucy into it. Whilst Granger washed her hair for her, he cast a heating charm to bring the room back to proper temperature. After a while, Lucy's shivers died down, but as a result, her limbs went a little slack and her eyes got droopy. Granger continued to speak words of gentle encouragement to her and held her hand whilst Draco cleaned some of the deeper wounds on Lucy's arms that he hadn't been able to heal before. The worst ones were from the shackles, the skin around her wrists and ankles angry and sore, broken in parts where she'd obviously struggled against them or tried to wriggle out of them.

"Well done," Granger smiled, stroking Lucy's head "you're being a very brave girl. You get it from your sister"

It was another one of those times when Draco questioned his whole life. It was just so unpredictable to him, there was no way he had ever imagined himself in this situation. There was no way he'd ever imagined himself nursing a small muggle child back to health.

"Our friend Remus is going to come and pick you up tomorrow morning and he's going to take you some place safer where it's warmer and more comfortable. And," she grinned, booping Lucy's nose "if you're good, I'm sure he'll buy you some toys as well"

* * *

"So you two hate each other then?" Megan asked, moving to sit on the top of the hill beside him. For once, the rain had slowed into a blowy spray, although they still had to wrap themselves in waterproofs "because it doesn't look that way to me"

"It's a lot more complex than that," he replied in a flat line voice, crystal blue eyes looking out at the stormy moors around them.

"Somehow," she said with a small smile "I don't really think so"

"You don't know fuck all about it," he spoke, but his tone wasn't particularly short or snappy. Mostly, it was resigned and tired. He was always so fucking tired.

"Maybe not," she considered, raising one eyebrow "but I know from just three days of being here, that Hermione is one of the most compassionate people I've ever met. And I know that you don't hate her as much as you'd probably like to"

"Well obviously," he huffed, bowing his head a little and rubbing his left eye "I have to live with her. It's a lot easier if I don't want to stab her in the face all the time"

"You have a point there, mister," she chuckled, pulling her jacket around her shoulders tighter.

The seemingly everlasting winter was getting tiring and inconvenient, and Megan's breath could be seen in the air under the hood of the waterproof coat she had snagged from him yet again. She reached sideways with that shameless attitude she radiated, taking his hand from where it was resting in his lap, covering it with her own and holding it between them on her knee. Her skin was warm and calloused from the months she'd spent captive, but they spread a gentle heat throughout his blood, the kind that made him automatically lower his shoulders and let his guard down.

"How long do you think it's going to rain for?" she asked, head bowed slightly, drawing in a deep, shaky breath.

"The dementors fuck up the weather," he shrugged "so I suppose for as long as the war goes on for. We'll probably get snow storms in a few weeks, closer to Christmas"

"Shit," she remarked quietly "we that close to Christmas already?"

"Yeah," he sighed "but I'm pretty sure Potter is hell bent on getting a bunch of you rescued muggles back to your families in time for Christmas Eve," he told her "you just won't be at home. And there'll be a group of Phoenix members guarding whatever safe house they put you in"

"Hasn't it all happened backwards though?" she frowned sideways at him, lifting her head slightly to look at him directly "there was a huge battle about four months ago, I heard some of the deatheaters talking about it. They were saying that wars usually end with fights like that, not start with them"

"The deatheaters tried to attack Hogwarts," he said, a smirk of amusement twitching his lips when she looked nonplussed "our wizarding boarding school," he explained "they thought it'd be easier because Potter was in hiding and our old headmaster was dead. It just killed a shit load of people on both sides and turned out to be the big catalyst"

"And that was when you and Hermione went into hiding?" she inquired. He nodded dully, an expression of resigned distaste settling on his features.

"She got knocked out," he said "I defected when I heard the deatheaters were coming to try and kill the kids that refused to join up. Potter told me to take her and go into exile. It seemed like my most logical decision at the time. War's been going on longer than that though, in theory"

"Bet you're regretting it now, huh?" she snorted, lacing her fingers through his.

"Obviously," he responded.

"How come I don't believe you then?" she teased, nudging him playfully "I don't think you regret saving her life at all"

He didn't want to say anything in reply to that, so he simply kept his mouth shut, although his hand tightened a little in her's and he allowed her to lay her head sideways in the crook of his neck, the both of them looking out at the stormy landscape of green and grey. In the distance, cows grazed in the fields, gloriously oblivious to the anxiety inducing state of their world. A little while later, she breathed in deeply again and turned her face, pressing her forehead against the point of his shoulder.

"I think you actually kind of care about her, Draco," she said quietly, and there was a slight muffled hint to her voice that made him think she was crying a little "and we don't know if we're going to be alive from one moment to the next," she continued "so don't fuck it up, and don't waste any more time pretending that you wouldn't be devastated if something awful happened to her"

And then she stood up, brushing his shoulder with her hand as she walked back to the tent behind them, probably to prepare properly for when one of the order members came to pick up her and her fellow muggles the following morning. He remained on top of the hill a few more minutes, trying to make sense of his thoughts, before finally standing up, watching the world with his hands in his pockets for a couple of seconds. Then he turned and went in Megan's footsteps, ready to go to bed and sleep for a good six hours.

* * *

Draco wasn't sure what he was feeling. Granger was still crying quietly and clutching Lupin tightly. The older man was holding her with equal fervour of course, and the two had obviously missed each other's friendship in the past long months of exile, so he sort of allowed them their little hugging fest, occupying himself by pulling Lucy's coat on for her where he was crouching in front of her. They had transfigured one of the jackets that they had lying around for her when they had first brought her back from the cells, and she was wearing one of Grangers jumpers underneath as a little dress, along with the leggings they had fixed for her, as they had been torn and stained with blood when they had rescued her.

"Where are we gonna go now?" she asked him, a small frown creasing her brow.

"That man over there is going to take you to a safer place where your mummy is waiting for you," he said with a small smile, zipping the jacket for her and untucking her pigtails from the collar, nudging her cheekbone with his knuckle softly "you're going to be fine, okay?" he reassured her, swallowing the small lump in his throat. He was absolutely not attached to a child he had only known for three days; absolutely not at all. Except he really was "I promise," he added for good measure.

"You pinkie promise?" she asked, her bottom lip quivering a little. She was still extremely unsettled, and had immediately hidden behind Draco's legs when Lupin had first entered the tent.

"Of course," he grinned gently, lifting his pinkie finger and hooking it around her's "Lupin is a little weird, but he's really clever and nice," he told her, although it physically pained him to say those words, because whilst he was trying to get rid of his prejudices, the prospect of his ex-defence against the dark arts teacher still grated on him. Again, not that his discomfort mattered, because whilst he was defected and had a giant load of galleons on his head, Draco was still privileged, and Lupin, as a werewolf, had been subject to years and years of oppression; in some ways, moreso than Granger.

"He smells nice," Margo said from her sister's side, and he looked up at her "and he has pretty eyes"

"Really?" Draco frowned playfully "I think he smells like wet dog"

"Draco!" Margo giggled ridiculously, shaking her head and hitting him with her sister's teddy "that's mean!"

"I am mean," he retorted, sticking his tongue out at her, and she shook her head vigorously.

"No you're not," she insisted, poking him in the shoulder with her finger "not all the time"

"Try telling Hermione that," he huffed dramatically.

"No!" Lucy exclaimed "she loves you really, Amy told me," she claimed, as though she were enforcing some sort of law. Draco dropped his head for a moment, trying to ignore that little comment. It was innocent and uninformed, but there was something about it that absolutely did not sit right with him. He wasn't worthy of that kind of love, especially not from Granger.

"Okay, well I'm not going to get into another argument with you two because you're little tickle monsters when you get going. So come on," he said, standing up to full height and pulling their bags over his shoulders. Amy appeared from Granger's room where she and Meg had been sleeping, also kitted up with a jacket and some fingerless gloves.

"You girls ready to see your mum?" Amy grinned widely, clapping her hands together. The girls squealed loudly and excitedly. That seemed to alert Lupin to the little time he had to get them to a safe house, and he let go of Granger, smiling at her softly, wiping the tears from her face and pressing a kiss to her cheek. Moving away from her to the children, the older werewolf shook the little girl's hands vigorously, dramatically introducing himself to them, as Granger sniffed, wiping her face further with the sleeves of her jumper and wrapping her arms around herself, blinking a few times and trying to catch her breath.

Draco was overcome with the overwhelming urge to comfort her, his efforts at dismissing any and all more-than-negative feelings towards her, beginning to fail as the months of living with her went on. But, thankfully, he was distracted by Lucy tugging at the bottom of his jeans, her tiny face looking up at him with a hint of sadness. He sighed deeply, giving up on appearing the stoic, brooding little bastard he had always been able to use the mask of, bending to lift her into his arms again, hugging her tightly.

"Hey," he said gently, forcing his voice not to crack "you're going to be fine, okay? They're going to be able to look after you better than we can now, alright?"

"But _you_ looked after me really good," she mumbled, her face a little wet with tears against his neck. He swallowed hard and breathed out deeply, refusing to meet Lupin's eyes.

"Maybe," he said, bringing his other hand up to stroke the back of her head "but they have all the little tools to make you better, and you get to see your mummy again now"

"Okay," she sobbed a little, hiccoughing. He pulled his head back a little and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face "are you going to come and see me after all the fighting?" she asked. And it took him a second to compose himself. She was a little muggle girl, an innocent child who had no idea who and what he was, of the things he had done. She had no idea that a murderer held her in his arms and smiled at her face. But he was struck, for a moment, by the possibility of surviving this war, whenever it ended. And he thought, for a moment, that if he did, he would go and visit these people. Somehow, in the space of three days, they had become incredibly important to him.

"Sure," he nodded, mostly lying. She didn't know that he'd probably be dead within the year "but you have to go with Remus now, okay?"

He placed her down, and finally looked up at Lupin, blinking a few times with a slightly tighter jaw.

"If anything happens to these girls when you're getting them from here to there," he said quietly "I'll find you," he said "and your claws won't be able to stop me from ripping your throat out"

"Understood," Lupin said, actually having the nerve to flash him a small, compassionate, knowing smile. Merlin, Draco fucking hated Gryffindors. Well, maybe not all of them. But definitely most of them. He was glad that hadn't changed much.

Then, as Lupin hoarded the children out of the tent with Amy following, Meg stood in front of him, taking him by surprise when she wrapped her arms around him tightly and buried her face in the crook of his neck. For a moment, he was in shock, but then his arms seemed to wrap around her in return of their own accord, and he found himself closing his eyes, realising that he'd actually ended up giving a shit about her as well. What the fuck was happening to him? Oh yeah, his stupid emotional weak spot for the people who saw more than evil in him.

"Here," she smiled, a little tearful as she broke away from him, handing him a small piece of parchment with a number on it "if you make it through this, and you ever get a muggle mobile phone, call us. You can come around and taste my awful cooking or something"

That was when he felt something in him break. He bowed his head to hide his eyes, trying to get himself under control. Instead, Mel took his face in her hands and pulled it up back in her eye line, biting her lip a little as tears dripped down her face. Merlin, for fuck sake, now he was getting emotional as well. He determinedly wiped the tear from his cheek before it had gotten past the line of his nose, sniffing defiantly.

"Don't fuck it up," she said, reminding him of her advice the previous day "I mean it," she told him, pressing their foreheads together. Another couple of tears spilled from his eyes without his say so and he didn't bother wiping them away this time "she's important. She's amazing. Do. Not. Fuck. It. Up"

"Fuck you," he let out a breathy, broken laugh, and she smiled too, swallowing and pressing one last kiss between his brow before letting go of him and turning away, unable to look back at him as she followed her companions out of the tent. There was a loud pop outside, and then nothing.

The rain continued to hammer on the tarpaulin of their shelter, and he stood with his head bowed again, trying to get rid of the aching in his chest and the wetness in his eyes, trying to catch the breath that he hadn't even realised that he was struggling to pull in. And then he remembered Granger, and instinctually, he looked up again. She was still stood where she had been when Lupin had let go of her, her slender arms still wrapped around her own body, eyes staring and puffy and red.

"Granger," his voice was croaky so he took a moment to clear it before he attempted to talk again "Granger," he said again, catching her attention. She met his eyes, and, like some sort of trigger had been pulled, her face screwed up and she broke down again, one of her hands going up to hide her face as she shook her head, her body quivering with sobs. He closed his eyes for a second, breathing out deeply, before giving up on pretending that he didn't give a shit anymore; it was simply too tiring. Instead, he moved to her and silently pulled her to him, one arm wrapping around her, the other cradling the back of her skull. She cried harder into his shoulder and he tucked his chin over the top of her head, looking upwards, willing his own tears to fuck off and cut it out.

"I'm so fucking tired of missing them," she cried "I'm so tired of not knowing if they're dead"

He couldn't say anything back, he couldn't quite bring himself to talk. If he said anything, then the pressure of pain and anxiety and fear would burst under his ribs and he would break down too. But he knew her pain. He knew it because he would lay awake at night, alone on the shitty makeshift mattress that he called a bed, staring at the thin sheet of ceiling above him, wondering if his mother was dead.

He had no way of knowing whether his defection had left her dead in a ditch somewhere, or in the cellar of the manor with the rest of the prisoners. He had no way of knowing if she had taken the brute of his decision to leave the deatheaters, or what kind of brutality and unthinkable cruelty had been inflicted on her as a punishment for his betrayal.

And he knew Granger's fear. She too lay awake at night, wondering if somewhere else, hundreds of miles away, Potter and Weasley lay on their backs covered in their own blood, lifeless and unreachable. She too spent her days attempting to distract herself with her books and her research, trying to forget what she had done to her parents to keep them safe, trying to forget that at any point of their twenty-four hour day, one of her loved ones could be murdered and left for the birds to peck at.

Soon, her sobs slowed and the exhaustion of the past four days must have caught up with her body, because her legs gave in and he caught them, silently carrying her to the sofa again, draping a blanket over her before sitting on the floor in front of her, back to the sofa, knees bent.

When he heard her breathing slow, and confirmed that she'd fallen asleep, he allowed himself to feel it. To feel it all as it came to him. There were no tears this time, but it washed over him and ached like nothing before. And then, just like that, it was over. The pain remained, but for the first time in four months, it felt different. It felt as though it had settled, weaker and less prominent in his bones and in his blood. It felt as though the pressure behind his eye sockets had finally calmed and the restriction in his chest had released itself.

After another hour or two of sitting on the floor whilst Granger slept behind him, his legs went slack and straightened in front of him, his head lulled, and his eyes slipped closed, and he was met with darkness.

* * *

When Hermione woke up, it was dark. Judging by the calmer force of the rain and the temperature of the tent, she estimated around three in the morning. She squinted her tired eyes, trying to see through her crepuscular surroundings, before remembering that she was a witch. She shuffled a little, feeling for the wand in the pocket of her jeans, and casting a dim lumos, resisting a groan at the way even the smallest light burned her retinas slightly. When her sight had adjusted, she sat up a little, the blanket pooling at her waist as she established that she was in fact, on the sofa in the living area of the tent. She almost screamed when she saw a small head near her hip, and a body sat on the floor in front of her, but slapped her hand over her mouth as she remembered that it was just Draco.

When – how had she ended up here? But then she remembered again, very vaguely, that she'd had a little bit of a breakdown, and collapsed. Oh Merlin. That was so fucking embarrassing. She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks as she whimpered a little, completely mortified. It was only when she sat up at the other end of the sofa, that she realised she felt better than she had in ages. Perhaps she had been putting off having a proper cry for far too long. She just really regretted that it had been in front of Draco.

But… he hadn't yelled at her or told her off for being too emotional or ridiculous. He hadn't condemned her for being a soppy Gryffindor or told her to sort herself out. He had – he'd been there for her, and – holy shit, he'd held her and caught her when she'd fallen and he'd put her down to sleep and stayed with her afterwards. She brought her hand to her mouth again to muffle the noise of shock that escaped her lips, but when she looked at Draco again, his body slumped in a half-sitting position, she pursed her lips, frowning.

She couldn't just leave him like that, he'd wake up with an awful crick in his neck and then he'd whine about it for days on end. Not to mention he was probably freezing his bollocks off and would be very snappy and embarrassed if he woke up and found them in around about the same position they'd fallen asleep in. If she left him like that, they'd have to actually have a conversation about it, and she had had enough mortification for one day.

So instead, she quietly stood, placing the blanket on the arm of the sofa, and wordlessly levitating him very slowly into the position that she had been laid in just moments previous.

* * *

"Granger?"

"Finally," she tutted from where she was making herself a cup of tea in the small kitchen "thought you were going to sleep forever"

"Fuck you," he retorted sleepily, sitting up "I've earned the right to sleep for a long time"

"Yeah," she agreed "but you slept for like twenty five hours"

"Shit," he said, blinking the sleep from his eyes and accepting the tea she handed him as she sat on the sofa opposite, curling in on herself.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, and she was using that careful tone of voice she only used when she was unsure of how to talk to him.

"Alright," he sighed, resting the mug in his lap with one hand, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing his eyes with the other, trying to wake himself up "are you okay? You had a bit of a turn there Granger," he spoke, not seeing a lot of point in denying what had happened.

"I'm okay," she nodded with a small smile, sipping her drink and settling into the furniture a little more.

They sat in relative silence for a while as he tried to wake himself up properly. One of them needed to go hunting, and they were due a shift in scenery today as well, but right now he could not bring himself to move at all.

"Draco," she said about five minutes later, her eyes troubled and uncertain as they met his "what now?"

"Same as usual I suppose," he replied, wetting his lips with his tongue and rolling it around his mouth a little to get rid of the bed breath "we just wait"

"I'm sick of waiting," she breathed, blinking down for a second before blinking back up "I had no idea that there would be so much waiting in war"

"You could send a message to Potter," he suggested meagrely "but I doubt you'll get much of a reply. He's probably snowed down with looking for the Horcruxes right now"

"I feel like we should be looking too," she admitted "they found the locket and the cup the other week and destroyed both of them with the sword, even after Griphook tried to double cross them"

"Slimy little shitgoblin," Draco cursed dully under his breath, drinking some more of his tea "this is good Granger," he added off-handedly "your tea doesn't taste like house elf piss anymore"

"Thanks?" she frowned, although her mouth curved in amusement slightly.

"We need to move today," he pointed out, realising that the lethargy he was feeling was reminiscent of a hangover, and that was what he had been subconsciously trying to identify since he'd opened his eyes "we've been in one place for too long now"

"I know," she agreed "I've been wondering, what do you say to going back up near two bridges?" she asked "I feel as though I may have had a slight epiphany in the past couple of days, and I'd rather like to go back there"

"Why?" he frowned "what's significant about Two Bridges?"

"There's a river nearby where my Nan died," she told him finally, months since she had visited that place "she chose to take a trip there on her deathbed when I was six and she took her last breaths there and then when we cremated her, we scattered her ashes there as well"

"Ah," he smirked a little, fixing her with a knowing look "that's why you took so long coming back from your hunt when we were there"

"Yes," she nodded "I didn't want you to start yelling at me for walking across an open field and a public road-"

She was cut off as he choked on a swig of his tea, coughing and spluttering, looking at her with outrage.

"Are you fucking insane, Granger?"

"You see," she said calmly "this is why I didn't tell you at the time. You still hated me back then, I didn't want to get into another violent altercation with you"

"We were never _that_ violent," he replied moodily, glaring at her venomously.

"I threw a glass at your face," she reminded him "and you slapped me"

"You slapped me too," he responded uncomfortably.

"Yes, well," she said "we were both in very bad places and we still held an extreme amount of animosity for each other. All those years of hate and pain were not going to simply fall away"

"This is awful," he sighed, hanging his head. It was her turn to frown this time and she paused for a moment before placing her cup down and athletically moving herself to sit on the other side of the table, right in front of him with barely more than a few centimetres between their knees.

"It _was_ awful," she insisted "past tense. This is what I was trying to say before you got all pissy at me," she continued "I had an epiphany. You and I," she told him, placing a hand on his knee and flicking his chin up with her knuckle so that he was looking at her again "I think we work so much better when we're supporting each other and holding the other up, rather than when we are weighing each other down"

"No shit, Granger," he grumbled, raising one eyebrow. She smiled, rolling her eyes.

"I feel refreshed now," she informed "a lot more determined. And I want to go and see my Nan's place, just one more time"

* * *

"Harry said there's not going to be another rescue assignment until after Christmas," she said "he wants us to enjoy it"

What unsettled Draco the most about the whole situation perhaps, was the dynamic that was changing between the two of them. It had been a lot easier hating her than it was caring about her; he was so unsure as to what to do with it. It had crept up on him and settled in his bones without him fully realising, until it had been too late. Although, he supposed, he had given a shit about her life enough to save her in the first place, so it wasn't as though it was a new thing. There was something else to it as well though, something that felt different. It wasn't just normal, platonic companionship. It was unidentifiable, something that he hadn't experienced before, something that was pissing him off to no end as he attempted to really understand it.

When he thought about it, he had at least managed to establish three things. One, he would die for her without a seconds thought in the way that he would all of his other friends. Two, he thought she was quite possibly the most infuriatingly interesting and strong willed woman he had ever known, there was no use in denying that much longer. Three, he was almost certain at this point, that he wouldn't be able to cope without her. She was part of his life now, part of his new life on the run. And whilst he would be able to fend for himself, were she to leave, he doubted he'd cope without her presence psychologically. He had simply gotten so attached to her position in almost every frame of his life, that without her it would feel empty and very hollow.

"How the fuck can we enjoy Christmas?" he snorted, flicking his legs up to rest on her lap underneath where she was holding her book, her own legs up and rested on the table "we're two extremely psychologically damaged teenagers on the run from a genocidal dictator trying to wipe out half the planet"

"Draco," she scolded, slapping his knee and shooting him a look of disapproval "don't be so negative. It might not be festive and there might be a shortage of food with actual taste to it and decent alcohol-"

"Now who's being negative," he countered.

"But we have our lives, and at least mild comfort for the time being, and I think that's something to be thankful for," she continued, ignoring his interruption. He stared at her with frustrated confusion for a moment, wondering how she could be so alright with the way the days dragged and blurred into one another, wondering how she could be so bloody positive. Fucking ridiculous Gryffindors and their stupid ability to find something good in everything. It was a bane on his existence.

"Speak for yourself, Granger," he rolled his eyes, giving up trying to figure it out, and adjusting the pillow behind him supporting his neck and scalp.

"Alright, that's it," she said suddenly, slamming her book shut and shoving his legs off of her lap, ignoring his glare of 'what the fuck did you do that for', standing up and throwing his jacket at him.

"Granger, what are you doing?" he demanded.

"We're going out," she announced "to the local village. It's Christmas Eve, it's snowing instead of raining for once, and there's carol singers, I heard them earlier"

"Granger, are you insane? Do you know how much money is on our heads right now? We're two of the most wanted people in wizarding Britain"

"So we'll delusion ourselves," she said "we'll have our wands with us, I can pack up the tent and put it in my little bag. I just want to get out of here for a few hours, Draco," she pleaded, and for fuck sake, the little bitch knew how to get him to agree to things. The unadulterated use of his first name was always a sure-fire way to get him to agree to something because it let him know she really needed whatever she was asking him for, and of late, much to his own chagrin, he had been helpless at saying no to her.

He looked at her for a few seconds before screwing up his face and growling.

"Fine," he huffed "fuck sake I hate you"

"No you don't," she sang cheerfully as he shrugged his coat around his shoulders and went to his room to pack up a bunch of all his loose objects, handing her books back to her and watching her slip it all into that tiny little bag that she hooked over her torso over her jacket.

Stepping out of the tent was quite something. Pretty much everywhere he looked, there was a blanket of blinding white snow. It was ankle deep in the ground, dropping off of the leaves of trees. It was night now, nearing half nine in the evening, and Granger sort of just stared at the landscape whilst he magically dismantled their shitty little carry around sheet of a house, dropping it all into her bag.

"Granger, are you on something?" he frowned when she still didn't take her eyes off of their surroundings, seemingly transfixed. He moved to stand in front of her, clicking his fingers in front of her face. She blinked for a moment, before closing her open mouth and swallowing, a smile slowly breaking out on her lips, her eyes glistening with almost tears.

"I love it," she said "I've always loved the snow"

That took him off guard, the wonder and magic dancing in her eyes making his chest contract. He recovered quickly however, rolling his eyes again and gesturing to her wand for her to pay attention. He dillusioned her first, watching her become part of the background. Then she did him, and he ignored the uncomfortably warm, tickly feeling that the charm always accompanied.

"Ready?" he asked dully, and he felt her take his hand, her fingers warm and soft in his.

"Of course," she said breathlessly, obviously excited. Sometimes he could have sworn that he was living with a three year old the way she loved this time of year so fucking much.

He felt himself turn on the spot, and then they were gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Hey! I'm glad you're enjoying this so far, please continue to let me know your thoughts on this, constructive criticism is always welcomed if you're not an ass about it.

Dee xxx

* * *

As they reappeared with their feet firmly on the ground in a wide, cobbled street, she heard Draco gasp for breath once more beside her, and she too pulled in a fresh bout of oxygen. She wondered if she'd ever get used to apparation, it knocked her up a little every single time she had to do it. Not that it wasn't an amazing concept of course, and extremely useful. It was just a little nauseating.

"Where are we?" he asked quietly, and although she couldn't see him properly, she could still feel his very real hand in her's, as ever, surprisingly warm and soft to the touch, although probably very pale in comparison to her mildly, naturally tanned skin, complete with dustings of freckles all over her body, including her hands.

"Lavenham," she said in reply, swallowing heavily "I know this place"

"How?" he asked. They still hadn't moved, but the bottom of the street opened up onto gated little churchyard, and from somewhere nearby, a carol service could be heard.

"We're in Suffolk," her voice was croakier than she had meant it to be, but she couldn't help the mix of sadness and nostalgia settling in her blood, their breath very visible in the air "I think we were staying in Paradise Wood. This is the nearest town. It's-" her breath hitched in her throat "it's where my Uncle is buried"

They stood, frozen to the spot for a little while longer, before she swallowed a lump in her throat and took a step forward, muttering the counter charm for their disguises.

"I can't be hidden here," she said "I need to be me"

"Its fine, Granger," he nodded regally "come on," he took her hand again, and she was grateful for his leadership right now, every step over the stone cobbles feeling hyper realistic beneath the soles of her boots, the bitter cold of the still night air and the clarity of the inky black sky above them making everything ten times more defined around her. The snow had been shovelled to one side, clearing the streets, and as they walked, she tried not to choke up, unable to stop herself holding Draco's hand tighter where her fingers were laced through his.

He paused in front of the rusty metal gate that opened up into the small cemetery, but she breathed in again and opened it herself, met with something that felt like a wave of memory.

"You know," he said as though discussing the weather "they've never been able to prove it officially, but I think our magic makes us extra sensitive to old presences"

"I'm a sceptic," she lied distractedly as they walked. He followed her as she tried to remember where it was. It took her a few minutes, but then she found it, stepping between the small headstones, to one that lay beneath an old, black, leafless tree. Directly behind it, a small bricked wall barely four feet above the ground stretched around the plot of land, separating the cemetery from a field beyond the village.

"How?" he asked again, although there was a different meaning to it this time.

"Lung cancer," she said, her voice a little rough and quieted by the cold and by the high emotion catching in the back of her throat "stage four. Muggles don't have the luxury of being immune, or of dying in bloody battles in flashes of legendary multi-coloured light and magic," she spoke, their shoulders bumping, her hands in her pockets now, hood keeping her ears warm "a lot of them die of cancer, which shuts down their organs slowly and agonisingly until they're shitting into a nappy and pissing through a tube"

"Nice," he snorted sarcastically, and she raised her head in agreement with his dark humour.

"Yeah," she said "it's appallingly undignified and heartbreakingly painful"

"James Nottingham," he smirked, reading the carved letters on the cheap little gravestone "how British"

"It really is, isn't it?" she laughed, although her voice was weak and she was crying slightly now, unable to prevent it "I think I'm crying a little too much today"

"Granger," he sighed, nudging her a little "we are children fighting a war, I think you've earned the right to cry now and again"

"You've changed Draco Malfoy," she accused softly, giving him that little rare, small, mysterious smile of hers that tended to light her face up with magic "you would have teased me or snapped at me for being this emotional just three months ago"

"Fuck you, Granger," he retorted and she grinned, taking a hand from her pocket to haphazardly wipe a tear away.

"There you are," she said, wetting her chapped lips with her tongue and taking out her wand, summoning a wreathe of flowers. She caught them in mid air and bent, placing them against the stone and closing her eyes for a moment longer. When she opened them she continued to stare down at the name etched into it, but silently he apparently gave up pretences for the night, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close as she rested her head on his shoulder, her own arm sliding around his waist.

"Merry Christmas, Draco," she breathed, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Merry Christmas, Granger," he replied quietly.

* * *

They spent the rest of the night wondering around town, bickering and arguing about everything from Quidditch (which she completely dismissed and ended up silent and moody for twenty minutes), to muggle culture. He told her how shit he thought some of her muggle books were, and, over a toffee latte in the local café, she told him how shit _he_ was. What became apparent however, was that although they disagreed a lot, and continuously found something to debate, it wasn't malicious anymore. There was nothing vicious or vindictive about their squabbling. Mostly, it was actually intelligent conversation with valid points and understanding on both sides.

"It's sweet!" she insisted as he glanced distastefully at the woman running the coffee shop, singing loud Christmas songs to a radio in the back room.

"It's annoying," he replied dully "and why do people insist on covering everything in red shit at winter? Tinsel is just fucking messy and those stupid decorations they put on trees either break or make an inordinate amount of noise"

"Scrooge," she teased, playfully narrowing her eyes at him from where she comfortably clutched her mug in her seat, sipping from it occasionally.

"Bitch," he retorted, and she rolled her eyes, smiling but looking around distractedly. It was probably extremely risky for them to be out in public with no disguise on, and they'd have to obliviate the barista before they left to remove traces of their presence, but it was Christmas Eve, and although neither of them were each other's preferred choice of company, it was better than spending the night in relative quiet, lounging around and doing little else but reading and wallowing in anxiety.

"It's getting a bit late now," she said, looking out the window onto the dark street lit by tall lamps, that she had informed him worked inside little balls of glass with a filament attached to a cable that ran on something called electricity. He didn't really pay much attention to the fine tunings, but he understood the concept of it; muggles were a strange bunch, as he was slowly learning, but they were extremely good at adapting, he'd give them that.

"Yeah, we need to leave soon, pick a new place to sleep tonight"

"Maybe further away?" she suggested with a small, pensive frown "somewhere up high and sheltered. A Yorkshire Mountain perhaps?"

"I suppose," he replied with a sigh, drinking the rest of his coffee and taking Granger's mug from her, taking it up to the counter. They hadn't taken their coats off in case they needed to make a quick exit, and after giving the woman the muggle money Granger had supplied, he quickly obliviated her. They left abruptly after that, the contrast of the freezing cold night air with the warmth of the café made it even sharper on the skin.

"I know a place," he said quietly as they discreetly returned to the edge of the village so that they could apparate without breaching secrecy "Roseberry Topping in North Yorkshire," he said "come on"

With one final look around them, he took Granger's hand tightly and turned on the spot.

* * *

"Harry says there's been an attack on a muggle primary school," she informed him a week after Christmas, reading from their latest coded correspondence, her voice cracking slightly "three children died, but The Order have managed to rescue all the hostages"

"Evil fuckers," he growled, running one hand through his hair and trying not to get too worked up.

"But he says he's glad that we had a good Christmas"

"Granger, we visited your Uncle's grave and had a shitty, overpriced cup of coffee, I'd hardly call that a good Christmas," he replied listlessly.

"Oh hush, you enjoyed yourself, stop being so irritating," she snapped.

"You're one to talk," he retorted gloomily. They were both in awful moods today, a combination of post-festive blues, chronic insomnia, and a discomfort with how much their relationship was changing without them really having much control over it. It was a bit of a head fuck, going from hating each other, to accidentally caring about each other in the space of five months, and they were both feeling tightly wound and restless, the attacks on Muggles and Muggleborns becoming more frequent now the New Year had passed. There was a building sense in the air that things would progress at a rapid rate from here in terms of war and death toll. If they weren't careful, they'd kill off their own species.

"Isn't it getting too risky for him to keep sending you owls anyways?" he asked, going over the shading on a portrait sketch of a falcon, finding it too complicated to meet her eyes too frequently the passing few days.

"All the messages are coded and the deatheaters haven't broken it yet as far as we know," she responded, going to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Despite their impatience with each other, she handed him his own mug a few minutes later, going back to her reading opposite.

As she lost herself in her book again, he found himself looking at her over his sketchpad, observing that her injuries from their previous assignment were healing well, and that once more, she was nibbling at her bottom lip. His free hand clenched, the palm slightly sweaty as he abruptly tore his eyes away from the infuriating action, refusing to acknowledge his mildly elevated heart rate and the way he was now too fucking distracted to continue drawing.

He closed the scrapbook and placed it on the table, drinking his tea instead, burning his mouth with how quickly he swallowed it all. It gave him something to do then, as he stood and went to the kitchenette, washing the cup out and placing his hands on the small wooden countertop, head hung between his shoulders as he struggled to get it together.

He felt as though he knew why he was being such an asshole to Granger, but was simply trying his utmost to completely ignore it, to put it at the back of his mind where he put all the other good things that he wasn't allowed to touch in case they turned to ashes in his hands. It was supremely difficult, considering he spent almost every minute of his every day around her, with little else to do but drink her awful tea, and draw. It was maddening. He needed something new to focus on, something to distract him from his emotions, remind him what it was like to focus on physicality and adrenaline.

That night, he wrote a coded message to Potter requesting a new assignment, and the following morning, he got what he wanted.

* * *

"He wants us to kill Nagini?" she asked in disbelief, snatching the letter from Draco's hands the following day, re-reading the code over and over again, despite the words not seeming any more real "but this is a trap!" she exclaimed, waving the parchment about, stressed and finding it particularly difficult to process what she was being asked to do "if the snake is really there, you-know-who has literally put Nagini in that place to wait for Harry. It will kill us both, that's what it's mission is!"

"Well done, Granger," he drawled sarcastically, equally unsettled by what Harry was asking them to do "you've mastered the art of processing simple concepts"

"Shut the fuck up and let me figure this out," she snapped, glaring at him as she paced, unable to sit still, running a hand through her hair and breathing as deeply as she could. The snake was a horcrux. The snake was in Godrick's Hollow. If they went there, the snake would attack the both of them with extreme prejudice. A twelve foot reticulated python with fatally venomous qualities, a piece of Voldemort's soul inside of it, and razor sharp teeth. And her best friend was sending them there to attempt to slay it.

"Nagini is unique," Draco's voice came calculated and slightly detached "she looks like a python but she's advanced and intelligent. She understands human behaviour, Granger," he said, catching her wrist to get her to stop pacing. She swallowed tightly, his touch making her feel angrier and heated. She shrugged out of it, glaring at him furiously "she understands strategy and motivations. I have seen her rip the heads clean off of people without a moment's hesitation"

"_You_ asked him for a new assignment," she hissed, slapping the message to Draco's chest "if we die, this is on you"

"Fuck you, Granger," he snapped back "I had no fucking clue that he was going to ask us to do this. Why are you acting like this is some sort of actual hurdle for you anyway?" he demanded, the anger in his eyes only fuelling her own temper "aren't you supposed to be some sort of ruthless lion or something? You Gryffindors are known for bravery, where the fuck is that right now?"

"Do not mistake bravery for stupidity, Malfoy," she spat as he screwed up the paper in his dist "I am not an idiot, this is a suicide mission"

"It doesn't fucking matter, Granger," he growled, his voice rising a few decibels "the snake is a horcrux, it has to be destroyed"

"How are we supposed to destroy it when we don't have anything to destroy it with?!" she shouted, angrier with the actual situation than Draco himself, although he had been particularly foul the past week.

"Potter attached a basalisk fang to the owl disguised and dillusioned and protected by a shield spell," he spoke.

She knew he was right; the snake had to be obliterated if Voldemort was to die, and Voldemort had to die for the war to end. It was just that it had caught her by surprise. Only yesterday she had been reading about horcruxes, the words safely contained within her books as she drank tea and tried to ignore Draco's snide comments and frosty silences. Today, she was trying to wrap her head around the concept of almost certain death.

She was also having to consider that Draco may also be killed or severely injured, and as much as she currently disliked him, she also could not live without him right now, nor would she be able to cope with losing somebody else that she cared about so soon. All of this coupled with the fact that if she did die trying to kill Nagini, Draco would be alone. There was no way she could allow that to happen. But there was no way that Nagini could be allowed to continue to exist either.

"Okay Granger, you can bitch at me about this all you like, but it doesn't change the fact that this is one fucker of an inevitable, unsatisfactory situation. This was probably going to be our next assignment anyway. I'm not happy about it either. You think I want to walk into a fucking deathtrap? Even fucking worse, do you actually think I want to take you with me? I don't. But its not something we have a choice with, alright?"

Silence fell again and eventually, she broke the eye contact, dropping her head and turning away from him, closing her eyes and breathing as deeply as she could. A minute later, she heard him let out a sigh, and she slight shuffling as he readjusted his position on his feet, dropping the defensive pose.

"Look," he said, his voice tight but softer now "I'm sorry. This isn't what I meant when I asked Potter for something new to do, but out of all the other teams he has dotted around the country, me and you are the best option when it comes to killing Nagini. I'm one of the only people he has with inside knowledge of The Dark Lord's workings right now, and we're the smallest group of exiles for The Order as well. Its just the two of us. Minimum fuss, minimum potential casualties, and a most advanced skill set. It makes the most sense. We're not supposed to like it Granger," he said, and she knew that every word he was saying was correct "we're just supposed to get the job done"

* * *

"M-Malfoy," she half-sobbed, ripping his jacket open, her violently shaking hands desperately trying to cover the wound in his side. The smell of bitter blood was thick in the air as it leaked from where the wood had been pulled from it as he'd fallen so awkwardly and she had to resist the urge to puke at the nauseating deepness of it, and the splintered remains of the offending object around the mangled skin "Malfoy, come on!"

The house behind them burned to ashes, perhaps as it was always supposed to. But she didn't care. She didn't give a shit, because Malfoy was completely limp and unconscious and he wasn't waking up and there was so much fucking blood that her hands were slipping with it. It was still raining, and the spray was cool in comparison to the smudges blood and sweat sticking to her heated skin. A few yards away, the bloody basilisk fang lay forgotten on the grass as she hysterically searched for a heartbeat.

"No," she yelled "no, fuck you, you're not allowed to leave me!"

She fumbled for her wand, trying to get her hands to stop quivering enough to close the wound. Feebly, the thinnest sheet of skin sealed it, but he had already lost so much blood, and he was so shockingly pale. His eye was blackened and rapidly swelling, his knuckles grazed harshly, his left arm most likely broken and sticking out at an odd angle.

"Come on!" she shouted at his unresponsive face, completely void of the intensity she knew so well on those features. She looked for a pulse once more, and almost threw up again with the ferocity of relief that washed over her when she detected one. It was weak and slow, but there all the same, and Merlin help her she was not going to let the grumpy bastard die.

She swallowed hard, sitting back on her knees, drawing in deep breaths, trying to control the pressure of pain and fear threatening to burst beneath her bruised rib cage. Her heart was thundering in her chest, but after a few seconds, she swallowed again, nodding to herself. Tucking her wand in her pocket and grabbing the basilisk fang for safe keeping, she forced herself to focus. Somehow, on a severely sprained ankle and at least one broken rib, she hauled his slack body upwards. With tears rolling hot and fast down her face and the rain soaking through her bloodstained clothes, she closed her eyes tight and turned on the spot.

* * *

She had never been so exhausted in all her life. Her bones ached, and she was bruised in places she did not even known existed. Her eyes were sore and heavy and burning slightly with the effort it was taking to keep them open, but she ignored it, determined to stay awake. She'd been sat at his bedside for hours now, waiting for him to wake up.

When she had landed, she had been too distracted with erecting the tent and dragging Draco's body inside to realise that she had actually managed to apparate without splinching either one of them, despite the amount of fear and despair and adrenaline pumping through her system.

She'd calmed herself enough to heal as many of his injuries as she could, reopening his abdominal wound and cleaning it with dittany before resealing it with much more solidity, rubbing salve into some of the minor burns on his hands and neck from the explosion of the blasting curse she had needed to use after she'd stabbed Nagini with the fang.

Once she'd cleaned off most of the blood, she'd shrugged his jacket from his shoulders and removed his blood soaked shirt and shoes, replacing it with a cotton pullover from his things, and levitating him into bed once she had the decorum to cast the spell.

Whilst she waited, she thought. She thought about the last twenty four hours. She thought about the fact that now there was only one horcrux left to destroy. She thought about Bathilda Bagshot and her poor, mutilated corpse. She thought about the fact that Godric's Hollow was now a pile of charred dust, along with Nagini and Harry's childhood home. She thought about the fact that Draco had nearly died, and how that had made her feel.

And that was when she really started crying.

How had she gone from hating someone so stoic and privileged and sharptongued, to loving him, in the space of five months? How had she ended up living with Draco Malfoy? How had she wound up covered in his blood, sobbing into his limp body because she could not deal with the prospect of losing him? At what point had her mind decided that she would rather save his life than stab him through the chest with a blunt knife for everything he had done to her?

The answer came surprisingly easy to her when she really thought about it. It was because she understood him.

Not all of him, of course, there would be parts of everybody in her life that she would never be able to fathom. But she understood the way he had sacrificed himself to Voldemort to save his family, the way he had been stuck between a rock and a hard place, and still eventually made the right choice. She understood his deep rooted need to appear emotionless and aloof or impatient and angry at best, and how it was down to his father and his teachings. She understood that on the contrary, Draco Malfoy was an extremely emotional person, with triggers and insecurities and just as many regrets as everyone else. She understood that he was witty and intelligent and intense, and resembled a grumpy puppy in the mornings, and that he was surprisingly warm to the touch, and could be gentle and compassionate. She understood that he cared too much about the people he loved and too little about the people he had no feelings for, that his empathy was extended to a select few. She understood that, as much as he wanted to deny it, she was important to him on some level or another.

There was no saying that he didn't give a shit about her any longer, seeing as the reason he had ended up on the grass bleeding out, was because he had pushed her out of the way of Nagini's thrashing tail and taken the hit himself. But she didn't have much longer to ponder, as finally, he began to stir.

She crouched beside his bed near his head, one hand laid over his heart, the other stroking the dirty hair from his face. His eyes squinted up at her as they attempted to adjust to the light of the lumos she'd cast around the room where her wand lay on the makeshift bedside table.

"Draco Malfoy," she said softly, smiling down at him, her eyes welling with tears again "one of these days I'm going to kill you myself"

His breath struggled in his throat as he tried to wake up and take in the pain that was probably plaguing a lot of his body, but he let out a small, breathy laugh, one weak hand reaching up to bring her forehead against his.

"Granger," he said croakily "shut up"

* * *

"I swear to god if you don't stop whining, I'll knock you out again and do this whilst you're unconscious," she said through gritted teeth, rubbing the salve into his burns again.

"I can do it myself," he insisted grumpily and she glared at him, continuing regardless of his groaning.

"You can't even sit up right now Draco," she told him matter-of-factly, bandaging them this time, slowly. She was better at it now, since he'd wrapped her injuries for her after they had rescued Margo and the girls.

"You look fucking awful Granger," he commented, seemingly to distract himself, still extremely lethargic and groggy, most likely from the endorphins his body was releasing to deal with the pain.

"At least I don't have a gaping hole in the side of my abdomen," she retorted, lifting his shirt to examine it. The skin was still sealed firmly, but there was a nasty amount of bruising forming beneath it, and when she pressed on it slightly with her finger, he winced violently and tensed, winded momentarily "oh my god, I'm so sorry," she apologised as she waited for him to catch his breath again.

"Its fine," he gasped, waving her down "you saved my life, its fine"

"You don't owe me anything," she sighed, a small frown knitting her brow as she stuck to rubbing the bruise cream around the injury rather than over it for the time being.

"Bullshit," he scoffed "and you tried to distract me. You look awful, when was the last time you slept?" She didn't answer, simply carrying on with her work where she was perched on the bed beside his hip "Granger for fuck sake, have you seriously been awake the whole time I was unconscious?"

"I couldn't go to sleep, you were still in the danger zone! I had no idea how much blood you'd lost," she exclaimed, still not meeting his eyes properly. He caught her wrist, forcing her to stop with the bruise cream and look at him.

"You're about to drop on your feet, look at you. You look narcoleptic. For christ sake Granger, I'm fine now, look at me. You can sleep"

"I'm not leaving this room until I know you can at least sit up," she spoke firmly, taking her wrist back and finishing up with the cream, dropping the small vial back into her bag.

"Sleep in here then," he said "I don't care, just fucking sleep. I'm not kidding Granger, you look like you should be in St Mungos"

"We should all be in St Mungos for something or other- oomph!"

He had shuffled over, and dragged her into bed beside him in one movement. It wasn't as though the warmth of his thin frame and the softness of the blankets weren't already contributing to her droopy eyes. And she actually really enjoyed the sudden proximity of his body, it had been a while since she had been so close to another human being.

"I hate you," she grumbled, shoving her face into his shoulder.

"Right," he said sarcastically in a quiet voice, seeing as she was so near "of course you do"

"I need to clean the blood off of your clothes and sort out the bloodstains on the sheet flooring in the lounge-"

"Granger, seriously, we are both exhausted, can you please shut the fuck up and go to sleep?"

"I hate you so much," she whined again with no real commitment to it, but the feeling of being horizontal was simply too comforting to ignore, and she was half-asleep within seconds. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she briefly registered Draco's arm going around her as she turned into him properly and rested her head above his heart, the thudding reassurance that she was not alone lulling further into slumber.

* * *

The first thing he registered when he began to wake up, was the fact that he was ridiculously warm. Almost uncomfortably so. The second thing, was that there was a sleeping face pressed to his neck, an arm around his torso, and legs tangled with his own. For a moment, he panicked. It had been at least a year since he had woken up with anybody in his bed. The last person he could remember sleeping with, was Blaise, and that had been a goodbye fuck before he'd taken the mark.

But then a god awful ache twinged on the right side of his torso that felt like he was impaled on something, and his whole body felt sore and stiff. It was only when he finally braved opening his eyelids and was confronted with a mass of curly brown hair, that he remembered that he had fallen asleep with Granger. Then he really panicked.

He couldn't be close to her. He couldn't be like this with her. There was no way he could do that to her. She was too good for that, too good for his friendship in general really. But she had been so fucking exhausted, and had insisted on saving his life and cleaning his wounds and trying to heal his burns. It had made him extremely uncomfortable that she was suffering or depriving herself of something on his account. And now he was stuck in a life debt with her. He hated owing people things, it made him feel trapped and awkward and undeserving. He usually felt like that anyway, but this was somehow worse.

But, the warmth was so comforting and unfamiliar, and he was so starved of physical body contact, that he couldn't bring himself to move or wake her up. Apart from the fact that it would be horribly awkward if she were to wake up, he felt more rested than he had been in about ten solid months, and he didn't give a shit if it made him weak and vulnerable, he was going to remain in this position for as long as was allowed.

So instead of jumping back and freaking out or demanding that she leave, he closed his eyes again and tried to stay still so that his body didn't hurt any more than necessary, slipping back off to sleep rather easily.

* * *

He woke again a little while later, to Granger nudging him. She was sat up near his hip, looking almost as tired as she had before she'd fallen asleep. Her hair was obscenely knotty and mussed on her head, and she had changed into a long baggy plaid shirt, the dark lines under her brown eyes forcing him to blink himself awake properly. He tried to push himself up slightly with his elbows but he curled up in pain almost immediately, struggling to breathe through it.

"You need to eat something," she said, her eyes still a little squinted as though she had only been conscious for around ten minutes or so. She helped him sit up at an angle that wouldn't have him crippled, and put a small plate of warmed up deer meat in his lap, glaring at him until he started eating it.

"Thanks by the way," he grumbled, chewing the meat with a grimace. It tasted like cardboard and the flavour was so repetitive now, it was driving him mad "for saving my life and everything"

She snorted at him, shaking her head and drawing in a deep breath, her hand twitching a little where it was rested on his knee.

"Seriously," he insisted "thank you"

"I was terrified," she said, not meeting his eyes as she switched to nibbling her lip and playing with her fingernails in her lap again "I thought you were going to die"

"Granger," he tutted, smiling slightly, despite the ridiculous amount of awkwardness in the air "if I died, I wouldn't be able to sit around and irritate you, which we all know I enjoy so much"

"Draco I'm not pissing around!" she snapped suddenly, narrowing her eyes "I was-"

"Terrified, yes, you said that"

"Well listen to me then! If I had to do this without you – well, I could do this without you. Its just that – it would be horrible, okay? If you'd died, it would have been really fucking horrible"

"I get the picture, Granger alright!"

"Do you?" she said, her voice solid "because I'm trying to tell you that I am dependant on you to stay alive right now"

He paused for a moment and blinked at her, sitting up a little more. She stole a piece of meat from his plate and sulkily chewed it, staring at the ground near her feet.

"Okay," he said, realising that she didn't need him to make excuses, she just needed him to acknowledge that it had been stressful for her "I know"

"Alright," she huffed, her hands fiddling with one another in her lap "just as long as you're aware. Don't die"

"If I didn't know better Granger, I'd say you care about me," he teased, settling some more against his lank pillow and popping some more of the tasteless food in his mouth.

"You don't know better," she spoke, still not meeting his eyes as she stood up "eat the rest of that. I'm going to have a wash"

* * *

**Just a quick warning for non-con content. It involves the deatheaters sexually assaulting Draco, and him killing them. If you are going to be triggered, please skip ahead to the next line break. Be safe.**

"NO!" he shrieked. It was so harsh and desperate and furious and helpless, that it physically felt as though it was scraping his vocal cords, shredding them apart as he struggled against the arms around his waist, kicking out, being lifted above the ground as he screamed at the top of his lungs.

"Shut him up," Greyback growled. It was ethereal, as though the wolf was peaking out in his voice, contained but not dormant, and it echoed and reverberated along his spine as Grayback waggled his filthy, scarred fingers, his claws elongating with the movement where his hands were wrapped around the young muggle's throat. The kid was only six years old, maybe seven. And his eyes, full of innocence, were wide with fear, tears rolling down his cheeks as he stood restrained and frozen to the spot against the older werewolf's body, shaking violently and clearly struggling not to scream.

Draco continued to thrash against the deatheater holding him back, scratching at his arms, kicking at his legs behind him, yelling profanities at them. His heart was thudding in his chest and he was so very, very angry he didn't know how things around them weren't exploding or shooting through the air, crackling with the force of his magic sparked by emotion.

"IF YOU HURT HIM, I'LL KILL YOU!" he screamed so loud that his voice faltered and he almost choked with the breath he was unable to pull in properly, his body trying to keep up with the speed and determination of his limbs.

He was dangerously close to being stilled, until he turned his head and bit down hard on the deatheater's ear, tasting blood in his mouth and shoving his elbow backwards into his ribs with a crack that resonated around the woods at the same volume that Greyback's voice had done. The deatheater toppled backwards and Draco held out his hand where his wand lay on the floor a few feet away. It shot to his palm as summoned and just as he was about to shoot a killing curse at the werewolf, three deatheaters grabbed him, calloused, large hands wrapping around his mouth, muffling his shouts, stronger arms threading around his body, holding his limbs down, tackling him to the ground. It reminded him chillingly of when he'd taken the mark, and he could feel a panic attack building in his bones. One of them sat on him, and he fought the urge to vomit when he felt a hard dick against his stomach.

"Shut your mouth if you know what good for you," one of them whispered against his earlobe and he tried to thrash his arms again where they were being held down to the mossy ground either side of him, the sheer strength it was taking them to keep him still straining the bones, their grips bruising, the putrid scent of blood and rot on their breaths nauseating. He tried to bite and the fingers preventing his lips from moving but someone's fist laid itself into his ribs and he cried out in pain, his body trying to hunch in on itself against their hold. But he didn't care. He just wanted the muggle boy safe; he could not let this happen as he had let the same sort of thing happen for so much of his life. He couldn't continue to allow this to go on. They could do whatever they wanted to Draco, he just wanted them to let the boy go. So he drew in as many harsh, painful breaths as he could, still tasting metallic blood in his mouth, although he presumed it was more down to his injuries than to when he had bitten the deatheater, and gave in.

Slowly, the deatheater took his hand away from his lips and Draco, with a tight jaw and his heart thundering in his ears, swallowed bile at the back of his throat at what he was about to do.

"Let. Him. Go," he growled "you can have me. Just let the boy go"

"Well lookie here," Greyback's voice reached her eardrums, but he couldn't see him. All he could see was the crowd of manic, excited looking deatheaters holding him down "we have a lost little snake that wants to make a deal"

"I'm a Malfoy," he said loudly, his voice shaking, croaky from all the yelling he'd been doing "I'm worth more money than you've ever seen in your life"

"What?" Greyback's voice snapped, and he dragged the boy along by his ear and hair, ignoring his whimpers as he stood above them, slitted pupils searching Draco's face, gesturing for the deatheater sat on him to rub some of the mud from his face so he could make out his features better. Grayback's eyes paused on the trademarked blue eyes and narrow cheekbones, the blonde hair, the dark mark peaking out of the sleeve of his bloodstained, black denim jacket.

"I'm Draco Malfoy," he repeated "I'm Lucius Malfoy's son"

"Where is the Granger girl?" Greyback demanded harshly, and Draco spat at the deatheater on top of him, jaw pulsing. Someone slapped him, and it felt like fire on his skin. Draco turned his head back defiantly, staring into Greyback's eyes determinedly. They could have him. Only him. He would die before he told them where Granger was.

"Pathetic little bitch," Greyback growled again "take him to the holding cells," he commanded "not Malfoy manor, they'll claim credit and Lucius will try to vouch for him. The holding cells specifically"

"Let the boy go," Draco said "and I wont massacre the lot of you"

They collectively laughed before they held him down harder, but he could feel it building in his body now, fuelled further when one of them grabbed his crotch hard and dug nails into his thigh forcefully enough to break the skin, and another went for the button and zip of his jeans. The one straddling his hips dragged his teeth along the pulse point of his neck before biting down hard, catching the skin between his teeth and sucking. Draco choked down vomit once more and the panic and fear racking every nerve in his body simply gathered more power, more anger, more hate. For these people, it wasn't even about sexual attraction; it was about violation, about dominance and rank. Draco had never felt so much loathing in his veins in his entire eighteen years, not even when Yaxley had tried to hurt his mother.

There was a hand down his trousers now, and for a moment, he thought he was going to freeze, go into shock, be helpless to stop them, the flashbacks from his childhood momentarily paralysing him.

But then he opened his eyes as Greyback's claws slashed the young muggle boy's throat, the blood splattering flecks over Draco's face. And he let out a yell so loud that they all stopped and covered their ears. Directly following the sound, a burst of heat and red magic burst from his body, throwing them all back against the trees with satisfying crunches and thuds.

* * *

There were a few moments where all that he could hear was the sound of his own laboured breathing, and the chattering of his teeth. He was unsure, at first, if he'd even be able to move. He was shaking, quivering so hard, he was in awe of the fact that his bones hadn't caved inwards yet. There were hot tears dripping out of the corners of his eyes and landing in his hair, matted with blood on the cold ground, the branches digging into his spine, his neck throbbing, his trousers still undone.

And then somehow, he was able to move upwards onto his knees, before hunching, and throwing up, choking and retching on the contents of his own stomach, the feel of their hands remaining on his skin, the smell of their breath still lingering in his nose, the idea of what could have happened again already beginning to haunt him. To the left of him, the young muggle boy lay in a pool of his own crimson blood, very dead, five deep claw marks stretching the front of his oesophagus, tiny body cold and void now.

Still tremouring, Draco brought the back of his hand up to wipe his mouth, and stood, leg by leg, up to full height, lifting his wand on the way up. He fumbled to zip his jeans up and let out a small, pitiful sob when he realised that his top was ripped, mud smudging most of his clothing, dotted with blood, the skin on his face almost ringing with where he had been slapped so hard. To add to it all, it was still freezing cold, and he was unsure as to whether he'd be able to apparate in such a state.

Then he looked up, eyes catching onto the limp bodies of his attackers, all slumped against nearby trees. Greyback was still breathing, but barely, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. Draco went first, to the man that had been on top of him, swallowing again, forcing himself to switch off any emotion other than anger, and crouching beside him athletically. From what Draco could see, the deatheater had hit the bark of the tree with the back of his head and his skull was partially caved in. But his chest was still rising and falling, his breath rattly, wheezy, probably as a result of his lungs slowly filling with blood from the way his rib had punctured it.

Draco inhaled deeply once more.

"Ennervate," he hissed. The deatheater's eyes flickered open, widening at the sight of Draco, and he immediately began choking and gargling on his own bodily fluids.

"Were you going to rape me?" he asked, his voice quiet and low and careful, jaw tight, vein in his temple pulsing. He didn't recognise it as his own voice, but instead one of someone much crueller and much colder than him.

"N-no," the deatheater coughed, the helplessness Draco had felt earlier reflecting in the deatheater's dark brown eyes. He glanced down at the deatheater's crotch where he was still hard. Draco sighed sadistically, driven by this new animalistic hatred, clicking his fingers. The deatheater's body was pulled up a little more, pressed back against the tree by an invisible force. It was a wandless choking spell.

He had never been able to do this when he was a kid. When he was younger, and some of his father's deatheater friends were visiting, this kind of thing would happen, and he'd be completely powerless to stop it. Powerless even when he had screamed for them to stop until his throat had bled and his voice had gone hoarse and screechy. Powerless.

"Don't lie to me," Draco spat, narrowing his eyes, fuelled by adrenaline that made him a little dizzy "you were going to force yourself on me, weren't you?" he spoke louder now, standing back up to full height, the deatheater's entire body moving upwards with him, suspended a few inches above the ground now "you were going to rape me"

To the right of Draco, Greyback began to stir, but without a second's thought, he shot a killing curse at the werewolf, the green light glowing through the trees before quiet was resumed, the choking spell remaining in effect. The deatheater's face was going bright red now, eyes popping as he began to suffocate.

"Y-y-yes!" he gasped.

Draco stepped forward into his space and looked him in the eyes, a luxury he had never been granted before. He nodded once, lifting one hand and whipping it in a circular motion once through the air. The deatheater's neck snapped in one clean movement and Draco released the spell, watching him drop unceremoniously back to the ground. He felt little relief. He was still burning with the intense hatred, but slowly, the reality of it began to set in, and he started to panic. His eyes were wide, his mouth open, his chest hurting with the effort it was taking to breathe, reminiscent of all those years after a punishment, when they had left the room and left him.

He dropped to his knees, crawling to the young boy, pulling him into his lap. Disturbingly, he was still warm, and it broke Draco's heart even further.

That was when he lost control. The first sob cracked from his chapped, bloodstained lips, and then they broke apart his mouth and tumbled outward. He hunched forward, crying harder than ever before, burying his face against the still body of the boy's torso, every ounce of built up pain and fear and sadness that had been hiding in the muscles of his broken body for months was falling away, ripping him apart, making its escape. He had this feeling inside of him, like he was dead already. That there was nothing more than this in his future. That he was doomed to be this person for the rest of his short life. Doomed to fight and fight and just end up more lost and damaged than before.

And Draco Malfoy, the one he had known so well, felt miles away to him now, fixed in a dream, on an island just like this, in a shell just like the one he inhabited, but astronomically different, blissfully unawares, unknowingly arrogant. And for the first time, he considered the possibility that the world had given up on him. Any sort of higher power that he may have believed in as a child, with pointy edges, skinny limbs, and a superiority complex, had never existed. He felt utterly alone. Utterly empty. Shatteringly real and hollow. He felt as though someone who was half alive and half dead was possessing him, the shortness of his breath, the weakness in him.

But once more, somehow, unbelievably, impossibly, he found the strength to get his crying under control. He found the strength, after puking another couple of times, to lift the boy's body, with shaking arms, and still himself enough to apparate.

* * *

He had no idea how long he'd been sat in the tub now, his toned, scarred arms wrapped around his legs, pulled tight against his body, tucked under his chin. His hair hung wet, sticking and matting against the back of his neck. Tears rolled down his face, but they mixed with the water on his cheeks and around him. He drew in a shuddery breath and swallowed, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against his knees, not wanting to move, but feeling unbearably, horribly dirty.

At some point, he registered in the back of his mind that Granger had entered the small room, and was puttering about a little, gathering their things up ready for their next relocation. He didn't flinch or say anything when she wordlessly started washing his hair for him. But it was alright. He trusted her. He trusted the steady fingers rubbing the shampoo into his hair, and he trusted her to fill the cup with water from around him and to tip it over his head. He trusted the warm hands that took his own, prying them away from his legs and he trusted them to scrub the mud and blood away, to get it out from beneath his nails. He trusted her to help him when he could barely even help himself.

Some time later, she helped him stand, and wrapped the towel around him, taking most of his weight, her arm around his waist, his draped numbly over her shoulders. He sat on his bed whilst she picked out a clean jumper for him, and a pair of cotton sweatpants, assisting him only when his limbs were quivering too much for him do to it himself. When he was dressed again, he remained hunched slightly, hands in his lap, the energy drained from his body. She sighed heavily and moved to sit behind him, dragging a brush through his hair, taking her time, trying not to jolt him whilst getting through the knots and tangles.

"Granger," he spoke when he was done. His voice was croaky and low and quiet "please"

Somehow she knew what that meant, somehow, ridiculously, and with another sigh, she knew to put the brush beside them on the bed, to scoot forward, and to wrap herself around him from behind. Somehow she knew that he needed the warmth and solidarity, the reality and familiarity and something to focus on, something that eased the breath in his lungs and took the tension from his muscles. Someone to hold him.

Eventually, he let out a slow breath and moved to lay down, dropping softly sideways into the mattress, his head against the pillow, Granger's body curled into his against his spine, her slender arms wonderfully tight around his waist. And, for the first time, not completely terrified of what was awaiting him behind his eyelids, he fell asleep.

* * *

He was quiet as he patted the mud down over where they'd buried the boy. Granger been very quiet ever since he'd landed at their meeting point cradling the small body. He supposed that she simply didn't know what to say to him. He'd told her, really quite briefly what had happened, how he had tried to save the boy, been sexually assaulted, and then murdered the deatheaters who had done it. They didn't know the young boy's name, so there was no way to get news to his parents or next of kin. All they could do was make sure they put him somewhere beautiful and open and free. Birch Tor had been Granger's idea, and they'd packed up the tent again.

Whilst he'd been tasked with going for the boy, Granger had gone to rescue an older woman from a barn located ten miles west of Ireland, and been successful. Potter was due to come and pick her up for taking to a safe house some time the following evening; of course, Draco had not been quite so lucky, and he suspected that was another reason why Granger wasn't talking to him. She was too angry to trust herself with proper words.

But she wasn't angry with him. He knew what her face looked like when she was angry with him. He supposed that she was more angry with the deatheaters that had attacked him, and with their fate for being so harshly unfair. So was he, in fact. He had never been quite so furious, and that was saying something. But she had been so much more than he ever could have expected. She had looked after him, and whilst he suspected she was still quite possibly one of the most infuriating people in his life right now, she was there for him, and she was what he needed of late.

"I don't think there's a lot we can say," he spoke as he moved to stand beside her, his hands deep in the pockets of his waterproof. The rain had slowed again, to a cool spray on the wind, but it was still cold, and their breaths could still be seen in the air as she gulped back the gathering in her throat and took her wand from her jeans.

"De necessitate libertatis vincet semper," the words were some of the only ones to have properly escaped her chapped lips in the past few days and slowly, a head stone appeared, those words etched into them in her handwriting, neat as ever.

"The necessity for freedom always prevails," he said, nodding once, his hand leaving his jacket and sliding into her's "I suppose it does," he agreed "smartass"

The ghost of a smile twitched on her mouth but it was gone before he noticed it properly. They stayed there for a little while longer, until their hands were frozen and they couldn't feel their toes. Then they apparated with nothing but a crack and a second of colour, and then they were gone.

* * *

They kissed for the first time a week later. They were arguing about how to handle where they stood as soldiers now, and whether they should request to come out of hiding to plan a proper battle strategy for their inevitable climaxing fight with the deatheaters. They were so angry at each other, that she was resorting to petty name calling and yelling at him for how he had treated her as a child, he called her self-righteous and obnoxious, and somehow, amidst the screaming, they ended up clinging to each other and kissing.

It was a kiss that sort of blanked everything out. For the first time since Christmas, her mind was quiet, and she was suddenly running on instinct and physicality. She had never been quite so enthralled in one particular action, and, somewhere in the fog of her consciousness and the heat of his body tight against her's, she registered that she had never felt something as incredible as his hands on her face, never heard something as arousing as the caught breath in his throat, never wanted so much more in her entire life time.

"Well," she remarked quietly when it slowed, her hands still bunched in the fabric of his plaid shirt at his waist "that's new"

He laughed breathily, shaking his head where it was pressed against her's. This was insane. It was improbable, ridiculous, absolutely mad. Yet, somehow, it made perfect sense.

"This is so fucking weird," he spoke a moment later, his voice croaky and still thick with heat "_so weird_"

"Yes, thank you, Draco, I'm aware of that," she replied shortly, rolling her hooded eyes.

"Should we talk about this?" he asked when she huffed out in defeat and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly, closing her eyes at the feel of his arms around her waist.

"I don't think we need to," she mumbled, his hand tracing patterns in the small over her back beneath her cotton pullover "not much of a surprise"

"Fuck you," he grumbled and she chuckled against him lightly. He was right. It was very weird, but when she looked over the past four months, and everything they had been through, every little moment, every touch, every argument, every mission; it wasn't really that absurd after all. Something she had kind of expected actually, when she thought about it. It was kind of inevitable that she'd fall for Draco Malfoy, considering their situation.

"Maybe in a month or two," she said, and she revelled in the way he growled a little and shifted against her a little "when you're feeling better"

"I hate you," he insisted "I actually hate you"

"Sure you do, Malfoy," she grinned her first grin in a long time as she pulled her head back to look at him. He looked adorably disgruntled, a little red faced, but otherwise content.

"You're going to be the death of me, Granger," he huffed, pecking her lips once more as if to reaffirm his point "I swear"

"Vice versa more like," she tapped his face affectionately, untangling herself from him and picking up a piece of parchment from the table "write to Harry," she instructed, concluding their argument from earlier and kissing him again briefly as she lightly slapped it to his chest "tell him we're coming out of exile"


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, here we go, final chapter. The sequel is in progress right now, but it will probably take me longer to write seeing as I go back to uni next week, but I'm going to do my best. Please remember that I'll answer all questions and always appreciate positive and constructive criticism. And, as always, please enjoy.

Dee xxx

* * *

He had been prepared for this. For Granger to drop his hand and run with all the speed she possessed, into the arms of Potter, and then Weasley. He had been prepared for Potter hugging her like he was inhaling her, their limbs locked together so tight it was a wonder either of them could breathe. He had been prepared for Potter meeting his eyes over her shoulder, and he had been prepared for the respectful nod of acknowledgement. He had been prepared for Weasley's stink eye. Admittedly, he had not anticipated Molly Weasley's finger poking at his ribs and reprimanding him for being so thin and tired looking or for his estranged aunt Andromeda to tug him into a warm, unfamiliar hug and the tears in her kind, brown eyes.

But he most certainly had not expected to pull away from her and be met with his mother's stare from across the room. For a moment, he felt as though the ground was shifting beneath him before she was running at him, her hair blowing behind her as she slammed into him, her arms wrapping around him. He was so overwhelmed by the onslaught of her floral scent and the soft fabric of the robes she favoured, and the unbelievably strong feel of her embrace, that his knees weakened and she reinforced her hold around him, holding him upright the way that she always did. He clutched her as close as he could, his face pressed to her shoulder, eyes squeazed shut, breath short and catching in his throat.

"I thought you were dead," he strained, tears dripping down his face, every muscle in his body aching and singing at the return of his one true best friend, his only real ally throughout everything. The only other person on the planet who really understood.

"I thought you were dead too," she choked, her voice shaky and thick with pain and relief, her hand cradling the back of his head, her body far too frail under his clasp "my son," she cried softly "I thought you were lost to me"

"You don't get rid of me that easily," he chuckled a little, pulling back as she took his face in her hands, his arms still around her waist, her face as proud and beautiful as ever. She laughed brokenly, her smile watery.

"Draco," she breathed, kissing him hard between his brows and hugging him again "I love you so much"

"I love you too," he whispered, closing his eyes more softly this time, his grip loosening as his mind and body began to process it.

"She got here this morning," Potter said, now stood with Granger hugging the side of his body, her free hand threaded with Weasley's "you'd already left your exile point so I couldn't send you an owl. She defected last week"

"Last week?" Draco frowned, pulling away some more this time, taking her hands and looking at her properly "where have you been since?"

It was then that he noticed the cut across her gaunt cheekbone, the partially blackened left eye, the newly set bandage around her right hand and arm, and the weight that she wasn't putting on her left leg.

"I – I… was severely injured when I escaped the manor. I left in the night but the guards outside the gates put up a fight and it set off the alarm. I had to kill a lot of them, and I barely got away with my life. I apparated as far into the moors as I could, but I was splinched and in a bad way. It was sheer luck that Potter's patrol found me before the snatchers did"

"Mother!" he reprimanded, his brow furrowing further, his hand going to her face, turning it to get a better look at the cut "that was stupid. You could have died!"

"But I didn't," she insisted, that familiar authority slipping back into her tone as she sniffed and batted his hand away softly, taking her handkerchief from her pocket and wiping his eyes before dabbing at her own.

"Mother," he narrowed his eyes.

"Don't you use that voice with me," she scolded "I wasn't going to stay in that place with that man any longer. And if there was a chance that you were still alive…" her voice cracked slightly again "well, I wasn't going to spend any more time away from my son. I am also under the impression that whatever your organisation have been doing, it is working," she turned to Potter with one eyebrow raised, perfectly shaped as ever.

Potter blinked at her sudden address and shifted to attention, nodding, a small, tried grin emphasising his slightly uneven jawline. Draco couldn't help the smirk furling his lips as he watched his mother. Her posture was on form, despite her clearly broken leg, and her chin remained level, her dark green eyes fixed on Potter. Her arms wrapped under her underbust.

Narcissa Malfoy was a woman of questionable morality. She was high strung and tough and quick. Appearances were important to her, and she was every bit the Slytherin she was supposed to be, her reputation for beauty and razor sharp intelligence preceeding her. She was a skilled occlumens, it was a trait he had inherited from her, and was very much aware of the way the people around her saw things. She knew body language and speech patterns and human motivation. And she knew how to manipulate that to survive in any way that she could; if she didn't, both of them would never have made it past his twelfth birthday.

She was something of a viper, a nightmare dressed like a daydream, the kind of person that could kill a man in cold blood and leave her red lipstick print on their cheek as a trophy. And yes, she was ruthless, fierce, adaptive. But she was also very human. Draco had learnt that from early childhood, having been just a toddler on her hip when he first remembered watching her break down into tears. Of course, she had remained stone faced until it was just the two of them. Since then, she had taken brutal beatings and sessions of torture many a time to save Draco's live, to spare him any pain that she could. And he had cleaned her up, looked after her, and stayed up to watch over her whilst she slept away the attacks.

She was hell in high heals, but she was also deeply compassionate and furiously protective, it was just that the compassion was extended to a select few. She cared almost too much about the people she loved, and too little about the people she didn't, and was unapologetic of that. Preservation, survival and strength were three things she had built her decisions off of, and whilst it had lead them a lifetime of abuse, it also meant that they had endured and subsisted. They had made the best of a situation that they'd both been born into and until recently weren't able to escape, and it was something that she'd always drummed into him.

And he knew that was partially why she was here now. She had seen the signs, picked up on the increased unrest amongst the ranks of the deatheaters, witnessed Voldemort's outbursts more frequently. They didn't need to tell her, she knew that The Order Of The Phoenix had some sort of advantage that was making the deatheaters nervous. And, as always, she had picked the correct side at the opportune moment. He was proud of her.

"Well since you're a new defector and we're so pushed for time so we can't build up trust or solidarity, you'll have to take the unbreakable vow before we tell you anything," Potter said, slightly uncomfortable, sheepishly bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his head. Draco moved to speak, suddenly irritated, but his Mother shot him a look that made him keep his mouth shut. He had missed that, somebody else being in charge. It was a small weight off of his shoulders.

"I anticipated it," she said blandly. Potter gestured for the rest of The Order to leave the room, and immediately they all loudly announced several different reasons for being occupied elsewhere Narcissa lifted her uninjured arm and rolled up the dark red velvet sleeve, meeting Potter's eyes deadpan as he stepped forward.

"Mother, this is ridiculous, they're treating you like a criminal-"

"We are all criminals, Draco," she spoke simply as Granger looked at him apologetically and lifted her wand, standing between them as they grasped each others arm "this isn't about dehumanisation. This is preservation, am I right, Mr Potter?"

"Uh, right," Potter confirmed awkwardly, glancing at Granger. It was true, but he still didn't appreciate them not trusting his mother. She had clearly put herself in a lot of danger to defect and reform with The Order. Surely putting her life on the line to get to them so that she could share information would warrant a pardon.

"Okay," Granger nodded wearily as Weasley shifted nervously beside her "ready?"

Potter looked back at Narcissa for conformation and she simply smirked, tilting her head slightly to the left, making him purposefully uneasy.

"Will you swear allegiance and secrecy to The Order of the Phoenix and any information divulged by any member of said organisation regarding the cause against Tom Riddle and any of the other aliases he goes by?"

"I will," Narcissa spoke, her smirk growing, although the truth in her eyes was what allowed the magic of the first red coil to wind itself around their arms. Seeing as that was the only promise she was making, the coil glowed bright for a moment, before seemingly disappearing into their skin. Slowly, their fingers peeled away and she pulled her sleeve back into place, hiding the dark mark once more.

"So," she said, wrapping on arm around Draco's waist again and moving close, her eyeline remaining fixed on Harry "shall we begin?"

* * *

"You look tired"

He didn't even look up when he heard her voice, simply snorting in reply and shuffling over a space on the cold wall to make room for her. She sat close to him, her head dropping softly onto his shoulder, both of her arms hugging one of his. She was wrapped in a plaid woollen throw, her hair loosely tied behind her head, ridiculous curls escaping and framing her face, moving and tangling a little in the harsh wind.

He had to give it to Weasley and Fleur, they'd chosen a beautiful place to set up shop. Shell Cottage was a pretty little thing on the top of a cliff that overlooked a beach and a currently particularly stormy sea, backdropped by what seemed to be an endless horizon.

After his mother's gruelling exchange of information with Potter and a small group of his companions packed into the tiny kitchen, pouring over maps, marking out several locations where the deatheaters had prisoners, Potter had handed him a packet of cigarettes. It had been months since he'd had one, and he hadn't even questioned how the guy knew he smoked. It had been the first time he'd ever had to fight the urge to hug Harry Potter. Instead, he'd just taken them with a nod of gratitude and a wink at Granger who narrowed her eyes in disapproval.

He didn't even know that it was gone midnight until he'd sat himself down on the wall in the tiny garden and noticed the large moon, almost blindingly bright.

"Bill says we can have the room on the top floor," she spoke softly, obviously choosing not to give him a lecture on the smoking thing. At least not yet. He knew she'd probably bring it up the following day, but right now they were both very emotionally drained, and he was just trying to get his head together. For now, he was just looking forward to sleeping on an actual mattress for the first time in four months.

"Did you talk to Weasley and Potter yet?"

"Not really," she sighed "Ron wasn't too happy when I asked Bill about a room for us, got all squinty and big-brothery"

"That's weird as fuck, Granger," Mafloy smirked a little, raising his eyebrows and sucking on the cigarette watching it glow for a moment before breathing out a little "you've had his dick in your mouth and you still call him your brother"

She tutted at him, nudging him, although he continued to smirk at the small twitching of her lips and the blush in her cheeks.

"I'm going to have to find time to have a proper conversation with him about it tomorrow," she told him, snuggling a little closer, lynching his heat.

"_We_ haven't even had a proper conversation about it," he remarked.

"Exactly," she replied "not that it matters. There's not much to talk about. I know how I feel. I'm pretty sure I know you feel. So unless there's a big problem, I think we're good as we are"

He breathed, shrugging in agreement and turning his head a little to press a kiss to the top of her scalp, finishing of his cigarette. They sat there for a little while, still trying to process the abrupt changes to their location and sleeping arrangements.

Tomorrow, neither of them would need to get up early to go on a hunt and they would have to gut and skin a badger for lunch or test the wards. Just adjusting to the smell of cleaning products and sofas that weren't half devoured by moths was proving to be slightly exhausting. They could actually shower or bath in something that wasn't a huge metal bucket and they could clean their clothes properly with laundry detergent. The food wouldn't have the same bitter taste to it and the walls were made of stone and brick and wallpapered with clean patterns, rather than thin sheets of white fabric covered in stains that started to smell when the weather got too bad and leaked when it rained too hard.

He still couldn't sleep though. For hours after they went to bed, he laid staring at the wooden ceiling of the four poster, Granger draped over his body, her warm face resting on his chest as she dreamt of things she never talked about, his arms up behind his head. When he eventually did feel the pull of unconsciousness, he estimated it to be around five in the morning, and he didn't open his eyes again until around eleven am.

* * *

"So they're planning to end it at Hogwarts?"

"Yes," Narcissa replied, looking almost breathtakingly domestic. The robes she'd escaped the manor in were ripped and still covered in blood, so for now she was borrowing a plaid shirt from Draco that swamped her slightly, and leggings from Hermione. She had haphazardly tied her hair back, but even with parts of it falling either side of her face she still looked stunning and impenetrably steadfast.

Hermione had always wondered what she would look like when she grew older. Wizards aged slower because they lived well into their hundreds, but she supposed that she'd have a thinner mass of grey curls and, going by recent events, a shit load of trouble with her left leg that just did not want to heal. She hoped that she could see her fourties in one day looking as good as Narcissa Malfoy, but she doubted she'd even make it past her nineteenth birthday at this rate, so she wasn't counting on it.

But she was very distracted today, part of her mind on planning for the climax of the war, the other part on Draco, who was still too pale and flinched every time anybody but she or his mother touched him. He spent hours in the water now, and she suspected that he spent a lot of it scrubbing himself raw, trying to get the feel of the deatheaters that had assaulted him off of his skin. There was a pain in her chest everytime she thought about what they had tried to do to him, what they would have been able to do, if he hadn't been so angry and not in control of his magic. It made her sick to the stomach, filled her veins with fury and made her want to destroy something. So she couldn't even begin to fathom what he was feeling.

He hid it well though, moved as convincingly Draco-like as possible, maintained an almost scarily checked level of calm that only spiked when somebody wasn't respecting his mother or Hermione. She knew that his façade was the only way he was coping with it though, so she let him go on that way, being there for him and making things between them as normal as they could be.

And it wasn't as though she was complaining; it was so much of a weight off of her shoulders now that they were together. She didn't have to hold back whilst touching him or talking to him anymore, no longer scared that she might reveal her feelings for him. And for so long they'd both been starved of friendly, loving human contact, it was incredibly wonderful to be held by somebody again, to know that it was Draco who was kissing her, holding her hand, wrapping his arms around her or teasing her without the restrictions of being just friends or allies. They could be intimate now, and it was something she had been depriving herself of for far too long.

* * *

"Does it bother you that we haven't had sex yet?" he asked when she was laid on the floor doing sit ups, curls flatter than usual, and matted to her face with sweat. She continued to move as he spoke, frowning a little.

"Not particularly," she replied breathlessly, determinedly pushing herself further each time.

"So its not an issue?"

She paused now, stopping and taking her sports bottle, pulling the cap with her teeth and swigging heavily, panting slightly, back hunched forward, one arm dangled over her bent knee. She had done very little else the past few days, clearly becoming increasingly nervous about their impending final battle. There wasn't a date set for it yet; it was difficult to schedule the deciding fight of a war that had technically been going on for twenty years. But it would be very soon, and that was fucking terrifying, he had no problem admitting that.

"Look," she said "you tell me when you're ready. As much as I care about you, and adore being close to you, its not something I'm thinking about constantly right now. You've been through a lot with your body lately, and I'm going to take a wild guess and say that wasn't the first time you'd ever been sexually assaulted?"

He didn't really say anything, instead avoiding eye contact, shrugging, drawing in a deep sigh, and slumping back against the headboard of the bed.

"Right," she said "so you get to be in control of your body now," she told him, pushing the damp, stray tendrils from her heated face and getting up a little lethargically, sitting crosslegged on the bed in front of him, drinking some more of her water "you always have control of your own body with me. Its yours, and you know it better than anybody else. So let me know," she smiled, winking at him affectionately, still breathless from excersise "and we'll sort something out. But right now you're still recovering, and we have a frontline to prepare for"

He lifted his head a moment later, jaw tight, tilting his head to the side slightly, brow furrowing, mouth slightly curved.

"I still don't get it, Granger," he said, tongue darting out to wet his lips "I'm an asshole. Why do you bother?"

"Beats me," she grinned. She was covered in sweat, she stunk, her hair was a fucking mess, her cheeks were flushed and then she lifted her arm and sniffed at her armpit, grimacing. He raised his eyebrows at her, bemused at how she could be covered in her own bodily fluids, be such a mess, and smell awful, and still be attractive to him.

"You're disgusting," he remarked but it just made her grin wider as she sat forward on her knees, her hands on his legs supporting her as she moved in and placed a lingering kiss to his mouth, catching his bottom lip between her's. She pressed their foreheads together for a moment, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, before kissing the tip of his nose and jumping up, disappearing into the ensuite bathroom for a shower.

He shifted against the headboard again, closing his eyes and focusing on the taste of her on his mouth.

If there was one thing he was good at, it was sex. Sex with men, sex with women, sex with those of the in between or non-binary kind. Blaise had taught him everything he knew, taught him about rough sex, soft sex, the importance of intimacy and how that didn't necessarily mean actual intercourse. Blaise had been the one that had shushed away his phobias, covered the bruises left by his father with love bites, been his best friend and only other constant. When he'd been unable to get out of bed in the morning, Blaise had yelled profanities at him and yanked the duvets from his body and forced him to at least shower and go for a walk on the grounds. When he had been broken and lost and at rock bottom, Blaise had cleaned him up and held him tight and reminded him of reality.

And it wasn't that he didn't want to have sex with her. As far as his sex drive went, Granger drove him fucking crazy, in almost every sense of the word. He was pretty damn enthusiastic about the prospect of kissing every inch of her body, her ridiculous hair bunching in his hands, the sight of her gripping at the bedsheets, making her come so hard she forgot her name and screamed his. It was just that he didn't want to get there and end up panicking or lashing out by accident because of a flashback. He didn't want to be that person anymore.

He knew he wanted to do it at some point before they went off to fight, because there was no way he was going to die without having spent one night knowing her body, hearing her moan and whimper in his ear, being that close to her as someone he genuinely cared about, someone he always thought he'd hate.

He was so fucking awful at speaking things like that. He was so fucking bad at talking about his feelings for people because from the moment he could remember anything, he'd been taught that love was a weakness and a disadvantage. But he was good at showing. He'd always been a lot better at articulating what he needed to get across though physical contact. And he knew that if he could just get his head together, he could show Granger what he couldn't say, he could ghost his fingers over her skin and kiss her neck and make her feel what he was feeling.

It was fucking terrifying though. It was so scary. One of the most fuck off frightening things he'd ever thought about. And he supposed that was how he knew it was important to him, how he knew she was important to him. Somehow, in five short months, Hermione Fucking Bookish Know-It-All Big Hair Beautiful Ridiculous Kindhearted Granger had wormed her way under his skin and breathed a sort of life and passion back into him; one that he thought he'd given up on the second he'd left Blaise's bed for the last time. One he thought he'd given up on all together.

It was a sort of quiet, slow-burning, hazy, intoxicating, mind wankeringly deeper level of understanding and propinquity. It had the potential to drive him mad, or, going on the unlikely assumption that he made it to his twentieth birthday, make him as good of a person as he was ever going to become. It was already happening, he could feel it every day; every time he looked at her or teased her or coaxed that mischievous little smirk out of her seemingly squarish demeanour, every time she kissed him like he wasn't the awful person he knew he was – he could feel it altering him, making him want to survive this even more, making him want to hope for something that he'd never allowed himself to have, something that he had always believed he might be too broken or too selfish for. It made him want to live again.

Fuck, he was so screwed.

* * *

"You're not going to hit me?" Draco raised his eyebrows as Weasley sat on the wall beside him, still putting about a metre between them, but not looking particularly worked up or irritated. Weasley took a cigarette from where it had been resting behind his ear, and lit it, shrugging as he stared out at the sea.

"Are you going to give me a reason to hit you?" Weasley replied matter-of-factly. Draco let out a breathy laugh, sucking on his own smoke and hanging his head slightly, smiling "aside from the whole being a racist for the first seventeen years of your life thing, of course"

"Of course," Draco snorted, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue and wrapping one arm around his own torso, flicking excess ash away.

"Obviously I love Hermione," Weasley spoke a moment later, still not taking his eyes off of the horizon "she's my best friend"

"Do best friends have sex with each other now?"

"I don't know, Malfoy," Weasley retorted, looking sideways, a smug expression on his ridiculously freckled face "do they?"

Draco stared back at him for a little while, impressed for a moment, with his comeback. He wasn't surprised that he knew about Blaise. The majority of the school had been aware of their fuck buddies arrangement.

"Touche," he smirked then, swallowing and taking another toke, eyes returning to the line that separated sea and sky.

"As I was saying," Weasley continued "I love Hermione, and bloody hell, she's the toughest hellbitch I've ever met. That's saying something, my mum is Molly Weasley," he remarked, a little too relaxed for Draco's liking "so I don't like it, mate. I don't like that she's with you. I don't like that she's forgiven you so quickly, and I don't like that you treated her like shit for so long and still somehow get her love," now they were getting somewhere. Something in Weasley's voice told him that he'd sat and thought about it for a long time before coming out here, which was why he was so calm "but I trust her with my life," he said "I trust her absolutely. And I trust her judgement. So if she thinks you're worth it, and if she thinks you've changed, then fine"

"How long did you have to think about that before you were able to come out here and not beat the shit out of me?" Draco asked, still smirking slightly.

"Three hours," he chuckled, blowing smoke out in chaotic little burst.

"Well done there, Weasley," Draco grinned "there may be hope for you yet"

"Shut up, asshole," he said, although it wasn't malicious as such, and the smile remained on his mouth.

"Glad we had this talk Weasley. I feel like we've bonded. We should make out, it could be our new hand shake"

"Fat chance Malfoy, I know where that mouth's been"

"I assure you," he responded "Blaise's penis is completely clean and free of disease"

* * *

He ducked a burst of green light, whipping around and shooting a killing curse at the chest of the bastard who thought they could throw try to kill him from behind. He watched the light leave the eyes of Antonin Gledwyn, a deatheater who had always despised the Malfoy bloodline, but was abruptly distracted by a hot burst of air passing his ear. Turning back to his left, he registered the oncoming attack just quick enough to shove his elbow out. A fist slammed into his ribs, but his counter movement successfully dislocated the jaw of whoever the fuck was stupid enough to try him in hand-to-hand combat. He didn't recognise the deatheater, but there was a sense of fresh hunger and excitement in his brown eyes, and guessed new recruit. Shame, the guy was kind of pretty.

The fucker held his own though, ducking a couple of Draco's punches, young enough to take direct hits without being completely disabled. And he managed to crack one of Draco's ribs before getting his neck snapped. He could worry about the weight of all this killing later, if he survived this; the panicking and crying and screaming was for later on. Right now he was a nineteen year old fighting a war.

It was only when the deatheater dropped from his arms that Draco's world froze around him for a moment. Then he was running, paying no heed to the awful soreness in his torso and the blood on his tongue, his body slamming tight against another, arms gripping, hands bunching in dark hair. He was being dragged backward amongst the edge of the forest away from open fire and wave of intense alleviation washed over him, choking him, his eyes wide and glistening with tears.

"Hey," a wonderful voice he had thought lost to him gasped desperately, a strong hand gripping the hair at the back of his head, the other clutching around his waist, fingers tight enough to bruise at the other end of his midriff, the soft, plump mouth pressed against the crook of his collar bone "hey, asshole"

Draco laughed breathily, hysterically, disbelieving of the hold wrapping around him, the one he had missed so fiercely in the first month of his exile that it had been physically painful. This was his home, if he ever really had one.

"Fuck you," Draco panted "fuck you, you fucking fuck"

Blaise pulled back, pressing their forehead's together, his dark, soft hands holding his face either side.

"You stupid bastard," he breathed "you shouldn't be here"

"Where the fuck else would I be, you dumb piece of shit"

Blaise looked at him for a moment with fire in his eyes, before cursing and wrapping his arms around him tightly again, shaking his head against his shoulder. It was only when a curse hit a tree nearby, sendling splinters showering around them that they were pulled apart again, knocked off their feet. They recovered quickly however, crawling across the cold groud to each other, sheens of sweat covering their skin, illuminated by the different colours of light around them. Draco hauled Blaise to his feet and dragged him behind the nearest tree, hands grappling at the fabric of his dirty, bloodstained, slightly ripped Henley.

"You defected," Blaise wheezed, his muscled chest rising and falling heavily and quickly.

"You too, apparently," Draco replied, equally breathless as he yanked him out of the way of another stray curse, the heat of the battle contrasting with the cold spray of rain and the chill of the winter air.

"I was never a deatheater in the first place, prick," he snapped, grabbing a hold of Draco's t-shirt under his denim jacket and dragging him down to duck again, despite not even seeing the curse coming for them, watching it hit a tree about twenty yards behind them.

"Don't be a snob," Draco narrowed his eyes, gulping for breath "nobody likes a snob"

"I thought you were dead," Blaise growled, tapping him sharply across the back of the head, earning himself a glare.

"I thought you were dead too," Draco snapped "it wasn't like we had means of getting in touch"

"Well we can't keep this up," he said distractedly, glancing over his shoulder at where the thick of the battle was taking place. They were on some field ten miles west of Dartmoor, surrounded on all sides by patches of forest and shrubbery "also when the fuck did you get so trigger happy?"

"Since I started travelling in exile with Hermione Granger," he yelled, the noise of the fighting getting louder, the rain picking up slightly.

"What the fu-" Blaise's shout of incredulity was cut off when Draco threw them sideways to the ground again. When they got back up, grappling with each other to stand, they took off on feet immediately, marching back out onto the field, working together now, having always made a good team in combat. Blaise had all the training of a deatheater, but had escaped into hiding with his mother after Voldemort had slaughtered his father in front of him. Draco had been left at the manor to take the mark, and a week later, a hunting party had returned claiming that they'd killed Blaise and his associates. Clearly a lie, seeing as Blaise was currently back-to-back with him, shooting curses left right and centre as they tried to move back up to the frontline.

Around them, dead bodies lay strewn about macarbrely, almost like decoration. Blood squelched with mud and rain beneath their shoes amongst the grass. But there were still thousands of people around them fighting, dropping like puppets cut from their strings, being thrown backwards in bursts of fatal heat and light. Then he spotted Granger, as she kneed somebody in the crotch and slammed her tiny fist into their face, knocking them out with a cruch and a yelp. He grabbed her around the waist from behind with one arm and pulled her out the way of a jinx, continuing to duel someone with the other.

"Thanks," she grinned at him, her hair knotted and messy in its plat, blood and dirt smeared across her face, eyes alight with determination and adrenaline. She moved straight into a fight with somebody else and he and Blaise were met with a wall of deatheaters facing them about ten feet away, and straight away they had to start blocking spells and shooting them back, having to use their whole bodies with almost every movement.

"That was so fucking weird," Blaise yelled over the noise, not pausing in his motions, ducking and whipping the deciding curse at a momentarily distracted opponent, sending them flying backward through the air, leaving them with four different people against the two of them.

"Don't be mean," Granger's voice retorted as she joined them. Within three short, razor sharp, lightening fast movements of her arm, all four deatheaters where limp on the ground. Both men stared at her in awe, eyebrows near their hairline, eyes wide, mouths agape.

"What?" she shrugged, grin still in place on her split lip, a graze stretching across her cheekbone again, left eye blackened but not swollen "don't fuck with me"

"I am simultaneously scared and turned on," Blaise said, eyes still wide, shaking his head.

"Fuck off," she replied, dragging Draco's cheek to her lips as a way of greeting and blindly shooting a curse to her left at a deatheater that had been about to attack her "one Slytherin is all I can handle"

"Don't look at me," Draco said, laughing slightly, returning the rough kiss to her uninjured cheek, one hand cradling the other side of her head, still looking at a bemused Blaise "its not my fault"

"I have so much to yell at you about," Blaise shouted ridiculously as Granger suddenly launched herself at the two of them, tugging them into crouching positions, covering them with her body as much as she could as an explosion laved a rush of hot air over their heads, wiping out anybody who hadn't ducked or moved on time, the feindfire roaring to the right of them. Screams filled the air as several people began to burn alive. Draco managed to get his wand out through a gap in the tangle of arms, shooting killing curses at those he could see covered with flames, already too burnt to save, putting them out of their misery.

"I think I'm in love with her," Blaise said dumbfoundedly as it died down but the flames continued to lick spots of grass around the field and Granger heaved them both back to their feet.

* * *

Ten minutes of hard out duelling and combat fighting later, there was a commotion up front, the battle as a whole slowing. Draco had to grab Granger by the arms and forcibly keep her from running forward as Potter and Voldemort began circling each other, a lion and a snake in a cage snapping and hissing at each other. Someone had destroyed the tiara then, and his eyes searched frantically for Nagini, resting on her corpse near where Longbottom was stood, her body sliced in half, the sword of Gryffindor in the young shmuck's hand, apparently not as much of a blithering idiot as the world had assumed.

"Potter was dead a minute ago," some kid to their left whispered.

"You can't kill Harry Potter," her bloodied up friend replied "at least not permenantly. He's too fucking stubborn for that"

"Granger hold fucking still, you have to let him do this himself, dammit!" Draco snapped against her ear, getting his arm around her waist, her arm movements abating.

"This is it," she spoke numbly, the light of an adjacent fire shining in her wide eyes as she distractedly shrugged out of his hold. He reluctantly retracted his arm, sure now that she had realised the gravity of the moment and was not going to try to intervene.

As Draco watched the intense expression on Voldemort's distorted, snake like face, breathing slow and labourous. From their left, Weasley slid his way through the crowd to stand next to Granger, both of them wearing looks of acute fear, struggling with their deep-routed instincts to protect their other limb. That's what Potter was to them, Draco had come to realise. In the same way that Blaise was his extra body part, Harry Potter was like Granger and Weasley's added appendage. Neither of them would be able to function if he died. They loved that brave, stupid idiot like their brother.

Draco was tuned in on a different frequency though. He watched Voldemort with an indescribable emotion burning in his gut, catching in his throat, making his knees slightly weak. Blaise caught him around the middle from behind, the hard planes of his chest against his spine, chin tucked over his shoulder.

"Keep it together," he said quietly against his ear, Draco's hands coming up to grip at Blaise's where they rested on his bruised, probably bleeding abdomen, using the contact to ground him and steady his breathing "its nearly over"

He didn't like that Granger was in front of him where he couldn't shield her if something went down, although he knew Weasley would protect her with his life if it came to it, he felt as though one of his nerves were exposed and he was sort of powerless to cover it up again.

But his attention was mostly focused on the tall, skeletal figure becoming more and more irritated and hysteric as Potter yelled the true story at him. The rain became harder, and it felt rooting as it fell against his scorched skin, washing part of the dirt and blood away, years of belief in this one person, this one cause, falling away from him, the remainders of any sort of conditioned loyalty he had for Tom Riddle crumbling like dried mud from his body. This person who had trapped him from birth despite his absence for the first fifteen years of his life, the person who had advocated for the murder and rape and torture of innocent people, the person who had destroyed his father's sanity and put his mother through hell, the person who had ripped his life apart and pushed him to the brink of insanity, and thus, into the very best thing that could ever have happened to him.

The breath left him and he almost collapsed when Voldemort's body dropped to the ground, the blood rushing around his head. Blaise kept him upright, turning him around and holding him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head to his shoulder, the other tightly threaded around his waist, holding him vertical. Several shouts and pops sounded around them as the remaining deatheaters began to try and run and apparate, but he couldn't be bothered with that right now.

"Okay," Blaise's voise was shaky and broken, but solid and assuring as Draco squeazed his eyes shut, tears rolling down his cheeks "its okay"

Then his mother was there, worming her way in, pressing their heads together and kissing the both of them.

"One of these days you boys will give me a heart attack," she breathed, hugging them both to her tightly.

"We don't do it on purpose," Blaise laughed exhaustedly against her, eventually pulling back. Draco finally turned back, ready to face the aftermath to find Granger extracting herself from the arms of Weasley and Potter. She looked as though she was scolding Weasley for a moment before she walked towards him, smiling softly when she stepped into his space, taking his hands.

"You're hurt," she said, a frown furrowing her brow, her thumb ghosting over his knuckles where there were deep cuts, although it had stopped bleeding for the moment. His ribs were throbbing painfully but it wasn't unbareable, and it hurt to breathe slightly where somebody had had him by the neck at one point, and when the adrenaline had worn off, he supposed he'd feel the full extent of his injuries, but right now, he was still running in slight combat mode. He was having a hard time believing that it was actually over, the reality of it not quite registering properly.

He snorted, sighing deeply and rolling his eyes, pulling her against him, his arms wrapping around her as he pressed another rough kiss to her cheekbone.

"I love you," she croaked against him, and he could feel her shaking slightly, crying. It was expected, he was a little choked up himself; but he hadn't been expecting her to say that, it made him step back a moment, eyebrows shooting to the top of his head. She was crying, as he suspected, and she was smiling. Her hair was singed and frizzy, her face battered and bruised and covered in dirt. But for fuck sake she was still one of the most beautiful people he'd ever seen, regardless of whether it was cheesy or if it made him vulnerable as fuck.

"Granger-"

"Oh shut up," she tutted, punching him in the arm softly "you don't have to say it back. We did just win a twenty year war; we don't even know what its like to be together without that looming over us. But I love you, Draco Malfoy," she grinned, stepping back in, her arm threading around his waist, dropping her forehead against his "and-"

She was cut off suddenly by the flash of purple light. It took her left leg out, exploding, causing her to scream out in pain. He just managed to catch her before she hit the ground. He pulled her against him where he sat back on his knees, white hot panic shooting through him. Potter and Weasley had rushed forward, and then there was blood everywhere and she was wailing in agony, sobbing into his shoulder, her hands gripping at his arms.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit," he whimpered pathetically, eyes settling on the mangled mess that was the second half of her left leg. The blood was all over his hands, hot and wet and terrifying. She was shaking violently now, and about fifty yards away, the unchecked deatheater that had cursed her was being detained by Kingsley and Lupin "what the fuck?" he croaked, shaking his head. His mother knelt beside him, drawing in a deep breath before settling into action immediately.

"Shhh," she said, taking out her wand and muttering a string of spells. The bleeding began to stop but the nauseating flesh was still grotesquely damaged and singed down to the bone, charred and grizzled, chunks missing. Narcissa slashed the fabric of her jeans open properly.

"Is she okay?" Weasley demanded in a frantic voice where he was crouched. Granger was still sobbing heavily against Draco, hyperventilating now. Her skin was pale and pallid and she was urging slightly.

"She needs to be taken to hospital right now," Narcissa spoke regally "she's lost a lot of blood"

"Fuck," she moaned loudly in anguish. She was biting down hard on her hand to stop herself from breaking her teeth, gulping and gasping for air. It was so distressing and scary, like every sound of dolor that escaped her mouth was resonating in his bones, wrapping its harsh, bony fingers around his lungs and heart, preventing him from breathing properly.

"Malfoy," Potter's voice came soft, closer now as he squatted on the other side of Granger's body, his hand shaking as he reached out to place it on Granger's right leg "we need to apparate her, and you're in too much of a state to do it"

"Hey," Blaise's voice came next, and that was what really plucked him back to reality "c'mon, let your mother take her, she'll be in good hands"

"Granger," he managed, burying his face against her's a little where she was hiding it against his jacket "my mother is going to take you to st mungos, okay?"

"I – it h-hurts," she struggled, her face screwed up in pain.

"I know," he said as gently as he could "I know, love, but you have to let her take you"

Slowly, he allowed Weasley, Blaise and his mother to assist him in lifting Granger upright. Weasley took her weight on one side, Narcissa took it on the other.

Blaise took him by the arms and moved him away slightly as they apparated her away. He was tremoring now, the shock of everything that had happening in the past twenty minutes beginning to take a hold of him. He ran a hand through his hair, nails scraping over his scalp as he hung his head, trying to breath through the hysteria. He paced slightly, jaw tight, trying to ignore the fact that he was soaked in Granger's blood and tears, unable to get the blanched, sickly colour of her skin out of his head.

"You need to calm down," Blaise said "you can't apparate after them like this, you'll splinch yourself"

"I fucking know that, Blaise," he snapped, swallowing tightly "I know"

People around them were starting to go into recovery mode, levitating the dead bodies of the deatheaters to one side of the field, those of their own to the other. People with minor injuries were being tended to, and Arthur Weasley was working with Moody to direct them away from Voldemort's body whilst they decided what to do with it.

Eventually Blaise caught him by taking his face in his hands.

"Hey," he said firmly "I don't know what kind of weird as fuck situation you've got going on with Granger, but she didn't look like she was in a good way. You can't lose it right now, she needs you"

"I'm so fucked in the head, Blaise," Draco said, looking helpless and tired "if she goes the way I think she's going, how am I supposed to look after her when I can't look after myself?

"She's Hermione Granger, you fucking dumbass," Blaise replied, pressing a rough kiss between his brows "she doesn't need you to look after her. She just needs you to be there"

* * *

"Granger, please take a break," he sighed, rolling his eyes as she placed a particularly heavy box down on the floor near where their new fridge had been randomly positioned for temporary use. She stood slowly, one hand on the bottom of her back, blowing a few curls from her face and moving the hand to her waist, blinking a few times and nodding. She went to step backwards into the dining chair, but ended up staggering into it instead.

It was still hard for her. She was still struggling to get the hang of the prosthetic, and it had taken her a while to fully understand the gravity of losing a literal limb. For a while, he had wondered whether she would actually be able to accept it at all. When she had first been in hospital, she'd barely said a word, and kept staring at the missing space where the bottom half of her left leg should have been, as if the force of her glare alone would grow back tissue and muscle and bone.

It had been even more difficult when she'd been let out of hospital. Weasley had been kicking off about wanting her to stay at the burrow where they could look after her. He had fallen into the old habit of losing his temper with the red headed young pureblood, until he had realised the vital flaw in their discussions – they hadn't even asked Granger what she wanted.

She'd looked shocked as fuck when he'd presented her with the choice, as if she was frightened of making any sort of decision, as though somehow the loss of the body part had taken away her ability to make any sort of real judgement for herself.

Nevertheless, three weeks later, with a shaky balance on crutches, and barely holding herself upright, she had independently climbed the steps to the door of Grimmauld Place. Potter, who was already residing in the old house that he'd inherited from his late Godfather and renovating it, had invited him to live there with her whilst she recovered.

The three of them had established a sort of peace, which included comfortable silences and grumpy morning conversations, which had grown into arguments over what channel to watch on television, and the newest report in the Prophet of an evening. Through a process of assisting Granger in her day to day tasks, her physical therapy, Chinese takeaways on Friday nights, a hell of a lot of predictions that revolved around whodunit storylines on EastEnders, and figuring out what they wanted to do with their newfound freedom alongside dealing with severe cases of PTSD, they had found a decorum.

It was when Potter had begun to spend so much time abroad as an auror, that Granger had brought up the subject of moving out to get their own place. He had hardly been able to believe her when she had first suggested it, the words contracting and warming in his chest where he'd had to take some time to remember how to breathe properly. Fast-forward another four months, and they were moving boxes into Luna house apartment block directly located along the Thames.

She was looking rather ridiculous in the gigantic t-shirt she was wearing with an obscure picture of some sort of ironic muggle cartoon on it, along with boyfriend jeans which she'd rolled up at the bottoms, with dark blue boat shoes. Before now, she'd gotten out of the habit of biting her nails down, but when they'd started looking for apartments, she'd fallen into it again, and her nail varnish was chipped, in need of a repaint or removal. Of course, as usual, her lips were spotted with redness and chapped from where she'd been nibbling on them as she concentrated on her momentary tasks.

Really, it was remarkable the types of prosthetics that both muggle and wizarding physicians had offered her. In the end, she'd gone for a varying collection of them. Her daytime one was shaped as her calf muscle would have been, and was transparent. The one she wore for ministry events was encrusted with silver diamante and shaped deliberately for stiletto heels. She had one with a more rubbery texture, coloured like flesh for when she was feeling more insecure, but the actual wearing of it was more uncomfortable for her, so it rarely left the bottom drawer she kept it in. She didn't usually wear one to bed, as she didn't particularly see a lot of point in it. To begin with, she had been hesitant to ever take it off, and had refused to tell him why. That was, until he had lost his temper with her insistent recluse that had obviously been making her miserable, and she had frustratedly admitted that she was unsure as to whether he'd still want her without something there.

He recalled never being quite as dumbfounded as he had been in that moment. He couldn't quite understand how she could even assume that being disabled would mean that he'd want her any less than he had done when he had fallen wand over arse in love with her.

After he had thoroughly assured her that he would most likely want her regardless of any circumstance, despite his own irritation, she had seemed to finally come out of her shell once more. For the first time since her injury, he had seen some of the old fire back in her brown eyes, the fire he had disgruntledly and hesitantly fallen for as they had struggled through blood and death around the English countryside in exile. They had been through so fucking much and survived even when they had not expected to make it past war; they could survive life afterwards, he had no doubt.

"Sorry," she smiled tiredly, huffing out a breath and dropping her eyes to the clear plastic peaking between the finish of her jeans and the start of her shoes around the artificial ankle.

"Stop apologising," he tutted, filling a glass with water and placing it on the table beside her, leaning against the kitchen countertop and crossing his arms over his chest "you're expecting too much of yourself again"

"I know," she nodded, drinking half the glass in one gulp, apparently thirstier than she had realised "I don't think I'll ever get used to this"

"Don't be absurd," he replied "most of the reason why you're finding it so difficult to get the hang of it is because you're still fighting it"

"I lost my fucking leg, Draco," she snapped, narrowing her eyes at him "excuse me if I'm not ecstatic about it"

"It's a part of who you are now, Granger," he countered, glaring back with equal fervour, the small stereo playing in the background still "you're not broken or damaged. You're just different"

"Are you seriously saying that to me with a straight face?" she challenged blandly, raising her eyebrows and sitting back in the chair, resting her back a little "we're about as fucked up as they come"

"I'm not denying that," he said "I just mean that you still have mobility. You can still walk around. It hurts sometimes, and it's strange for you, looking down at yourself and having something that isn't you attached to your knee. I know you're going to say that I'm too privileged to understand again, and that's true," he told her, her angry expression softening a little "but I don't need to tell you how I feel about you regardless of whether you have your left leg attached to your body or not. It isn't like you're suddenly not you. Just… different"

"I'm trying," she said, blinking at him again and bowing her head slightly, swallowing tightly "I'm really trying"

He drew in a deep breath, a small smile curving his lips as he rolled his eyes once more and pushed off of the counter, taking her hands and pulling her up to full height again. He wrapped his arms around her, and against him she felt as she always did, the beating of her heart thrumming against his breast plate just as warm and steady as it had ever been, her slender arms threading around him in return just the same, the side of her face pressed against his, the same height as him, and just as strong willed, her mass of brown curls tickling his neck just as they always did.

The familiar beginning of a song that Radio 1 had not stopped playing for a good few weeks now started up on the portable stereo, and absent mindedly they sort of ended up moving to it, the left of her head resting on his shoulder, their fingers moving to thread together, scarred and contrasting in colour. Her other hand traced soft circles under the skin of his t-shirt in the small of his back where it rested.

"When your legs don't work like they used to before," he hummed, teasing her. She brought her head back slightly, a mortified grin furling her chapped lips as she laughed, shaking her head at him "and I can't sweep you off of your feet," she continued to laugh, pouting at him, continuing to protest slightly "will your mouth still remember the taste of my love, will your eyes still smile from your cheeks?"

His voice was quiet and soft, and eventually, she sighed in defeat and laid her head against his shoulder again.

"And darling I, will, be loving you till, we're seventy. And baby, my heart, could still fall as, hard, at twenty three," he sang softly, swaying a little more now, spinning slowly "And I'm thinking 'bout how people fall in love in mysterious ways, maybe just the touch of a hand. Well, me I fall in love with you every single day, and I just wanna tell you I am"

"You're ridiculous," she whispered against his ear, although she sniffed a little, and a moment later, he felt a slight wetness on the downward curve of his shoulder where she was obviously crying a little.

"So honey now," he sang a little louder now, deliberately teasing her further "take me into your loving arms. Kiss me under the light of a thousand stars. Place your hand on my beating heart, I'm thinking out loud, that maybe, we found love right where we are"

"Why do I even associate with you oh my god," she mumbled again as they moved slightly more fluidly. He was taking a lot of her weight now, as she was still a little tired from all the lifting, but somehow they still managed a grace. A sort of hazy bubble of quietness that was kind of intoxicating and wonderful.

"When my hair's all but gone and my memory fades, and the crowds don't remember my name. When my hands don't play the strings the same way, I know you will still love me the same"

"I love you," she breathed, snuggling against him closer and pressing a kiss to the crook of his collar bone, bringing her arms up to thread around his neck, his own moving around her waist as she pressed their foreheads together.

"I love you too, you idiot," he replied.

The November rain beat gently against the wide clear glass of the large bay windows where it opened up onto a ground floor balcony over the river, and when he closed his eyes, just for a moment, he was back there, when he had first realised how incredibly fucked he was regarding Hermione Granger.

The rest of the song played without the need of his input, and instead they just moved, breathing each other in.

There was chaos in their lives of late, and moving in was a big step, one that would meant they were officially moving on from their traumatic adolescence. It would mean that they'd have to try and be functional adults. It would mean that he'd have to sit at dinners with her parents and try to remain on his best behaviour whilst her father eyed him suspiciously and made snide comments about the nature of his intentions and his past. It meant that Granger and his mother would need to spend more time together, that she would come home after long shopping trips and be so stressed that he'd have to duck from the prosthetic leg flying towards his face (which had actually already happened a good few times). It meant that they would now really have to work at trying to move on, really put the effort in to get out of bed in the morning, and to not end up addicted to dreamless sleep potion trying to curb the nightmares. It meant that they would still have to find some way to survive the explosive arguments they still had, that they'd committed to what could sometimes be an extremely rocky and problematic relationship.

But it also meant that he might actually get the chance to spend a good portion of his years loving Hermione Granger. And, as insane as that sounded amongst the rain outside and the music on the radio, it was all he really wanted.


End file.
